Witch in Exile
by tailchaser
Summary: Author's note, apologies for not updating and explanation added. Warning: last several chapters will soon be removed and reworked. This direction clearly isn't working. More soon. tailchaser
1. In Which Some Things Become Apparent

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WITCH IN EXILE

by Tailchaser

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Disclaimer: All the characters and places that appear in the Harry Potter books are the invention and property of J.K. Rowling. Any that are not are my own creation.

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Chapter One: In Which Some Things Become Apparent

Saturday 2nd August, the outskirts of Muggle London. 

There had always been something missing about the summer holidays, Hermione thought idly. Before she went off to school, she'd barely noticed the difference, but it had become more pained with every year. As if the way she spent the rest of the year was just something her subconscious had dreamt up to amuse her.

That was always how her parents treated it, as a deluded fantasy that they played along with under sufferance. Amused sufferance, but sufferance none the less. The disbelief on their faces was easily seen when she accidentally let something slip about school. You'd think I'd be getting fairly good at keeping things to myself now, she thought, flicking through the magazine in front of her. Though I suppose I am, because I've never mentioned trolls, dragons or werewolves, but sometimes I forget that my parents have never even seen a game of quidditch – which seems pretty normal to me after five years at school.

Until I came along, they never saw an owl deliver a letter either. Now they suspend belief just far enough to let one deliver theirs to me during the school year. 

The magazine joined the others on the rejected pile on the floor. Nothing in there she liked. 

But the summer holidays had always been a time for muggles and all that went with them. Television, jeans, shopping centres and movie cinemas; learning to drive her Dad's old chevy, and going to a hairdresser with Mum. 

And speaking of hairdressers ---

"No. I refuse to get blonde highlights!"  
  
Susan Granger sighed and regarded her only daughter fondly. "Hermione, dear, they would look lovely with your hair colour. Very Adult, in fact." 

Hermione stifled a laugh. 'Very Adult' had always been her mother's phrase for persuading her to do things she wasn't very keen on. At one time, it had worked very well.

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I'll settle for red though, just enough to be noticeable."  
"Are you sure?"   
"Yes." Rolled eyes. 

"Well, if you really want, but I still think blonde would look nicer…"  
"My mind's made up. Really."  
  
Half an hour later, Hermione left the hairdresser's with Weasley coloured streaks through her auburn hair. She liked the way they looked, but had only agreed to have them done to placate Susan. As a dentist, the woman wasn't too fussy about her own appearance, but as a mother, she was a demon about Hermione's. 

Another great mother-daughter bonding session, Hermione thought to herself. We do this every year, both my parents trying to show me how wonderful life without magic can be. They're not obvious enough to say it outright, but the feeling's always there. Like they're longing to ask me to stay home next time, and go to the local comprehensive as they'd planned all along. 

Then I can eventually train up to be a doctor. She grinned to herself. Last Christmas she'd overheard her father proudly informing her uncle that his little girl had her heart set on being a doctor. Top marks in maths and English, he'd said, and enough determination to pass her GCSE at the top of her year. Can't wait to get to uni to study medicine. 

It made her laugh, but it also made her a little sad. Because for all the support he showed her, she knew that he didn't really want her to be a witch. And since her parents never seemed to disagree on anything, that meant her mother had to feel the same. She'd wondered a lot since then that if she could show them what it was like to have magic, they might change their minds. 

"Want a pastry?" Her mother's voice brought her back to the present.

"Yeah, sure…just not anything with icing," she replied quickly, taking in the bakery they'd stopped in front of. Susan sniffed. "Do you really think I'd buy you anything that had it?"   
"Well, not really." Hermione smiled. Her mother's inner-dentist controlled all her shopping habits.

"Come on, then." She felt a hand in the middle of her back, propelling her into the store. "What'll you have? I have to get some rolls and a couple loaves of bread," she said, digging in her purse for change. 

"Chocolate!" Hermione said instantly, eyes alighting on that section.   
"No," said Susan flatly. "Have you any idea what chocolate does to your teeth?"  
"Mum, if I get any holes I can always fix them with my wand. Please?" 

That was the wrong thing to say, and she'd known it really before she said it. But she'd said it anyway. That famed Gryffindor tact, coming through once again.

Her mother drew herself up coldly. Still, she was an inch or so too short for it to have any effect. "Don't mention that here! What will people think?"  
"I didn't know that bothered you."

"We're in public, Hermione. Honestly. Some of these people will probably think you're very strange if you start babbling on about wands and witchcraft."  
Hermione's mouth fell open. She wasn't babbling! There wasn't that many people around either. "Mum! I---"

"That's enough, young lady. I don't want a scene, and I don't want an argument either." Susan turned away and collected her bread, paying the girl at the counter. Hermione watched, numbly. She couldn't even remember her mother ordering. 

That crack about witchcraft sounded just like Harry's relatives, the thought penetrated her brain. They're muggles, and they hate witchcraft because they don't understand it. But my parents are better than that, because they're far more tolerant, and they want to learn about magic! They're proud of having a witch in the family. Aren't they?

"Let's go." Hermione stayed where she was, thinking furiously. 

"Come. On." 

"Mum--"

"Hermione, now! Need I remind you that you are seventeen years of age? Please behave like it!"  
  
"I'm not seventeen, I'm eighteen!" she snapped.   
  
Her mother fixed her with a cold stare. Funny, how I've never seen her look like that before, mused Hermione. She was mentally kicking herself for the slip. 

"Your seventeenth birthday was in September. You were born seventeen years ago. There's nothing that could make you any older. Why--" she laughed. "You'd have to have gone back in time or something."

Hermione felt suddenly very, very cold. Don't ask, she prayed. Please, just don't ask.

Susan didn't, but the looks she kept giving her all the way to the car and all the way 

home were very strange indeed.

******

Sunday Evening.

Both her parents were unusually silent at dinner, which was normally a bad sign. Hermione ate quickly in the hope she could get away before the storm broke, but just as she was getting up to put her plate on the sink, her father stopped her.

She turned back, summoning all the cool she could into her voice. "Yes?"  
  
He flexed his hands, awkwardly. "Your mother and I – well, we've been thinking."  
"And?"  
"And we decided that it might be best if you didn't go back to that school of yours. I mean – magic, well, how on earth could that help you get a good job? You're not learning any skills that prepare you for anything. Just a whole lot of new age nonsense, if you ask me."  
  
Hermione felt her mouth drop open. If it wasn't a complete shock, it still wasn't particularly nice to hear. All along, she'd felt so proud that *her* parents, unlike Harry's muggle relatives, could accept if not understand the world she was a part of. Hearing the reverse made her feel small and miserable.

"I'm sorry, Mum, Dad," she said finally, inwardly amazed at how calm she sounded. "This is a part of my life, which I cannot – and will not – ever give up. Hogwarts is everything to me; magic is a part of me – to throw it away would be the worst mistake that I could ever make."  
  
Two blank faces stared back at her. 

Hermione said "I'm sorry if I'm hurting you, because I know I haven't seen very much of you since I went off to school, and I miss that closeness, but quitting Hogwarts isn't going to make anything better. Anyway, you ought to know me well enough to realise that I would never give up something as important to me as my school, my life…I've worked so hard at this, harder than anyone else in my year. Partly because I'm muggleborn, I suppose; I've needed to prove myself to everyone who's always had magic as a part of their lives, needed to prove that I was just as good as them. I think I have."  
  
Her father drew a long, ragged breath. His eyes were inscrutable, shiny, sad. "I guess quitting that school of yours is out of the question, then," he said quietly, and Hermione nodded. 

"Yes."  
  
"We've just wanted to be a proper family again, you and us, together like we used to be…"   
"I'm sorry," she replied sadly.

He sighed. "I always thought you were going to be a doctor and carry on the Granger family medical tradition, not some…some…"  
"Witch."  
"…unusual member of the community." Did his voice just break? She thought it might have, but couldn't be sure. 

"Witch, dad, witch. Cauldrons, robes, pointy hats and broomsticks, witch! I wish that you'd just accept what I am. I always thought you did, that you were proud of me for doing so well."  
  
He flinched a little. But his voice was bitter. "At what? At something I can't see or understand, at something I have a hard time believing in! You're my daughter, 'Mione, but this whole magic thing is just nonsense. I wish--" He chuckled. There was something so sad, so mirthless, in the small noise that Hermione wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him like she had as a little girl. "Dad…"  
  
"Please, Hermione." His eyes met hers, and they seemed to be searching her face for…something. She was struck by how tired he looked all of a sudden. The powerful man she was so used to seeing was completely gone, undermined by the weathered and exhausted stranger who now stared out at her from her father's face. Idly she twirled a finger in her newly red-streaked hair. Now she wished she hadn't had it done, even if her mother had all but insisted. It made her feel even more of a stranger before her parents than she did already.

"This is just so hard to get used to."

"What, after six years of me being a witch, and you're not used to it yet!?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she wasn't proud of the bitter arrogance they stung with. 

Both her parents met her gaze, and oddly enough, it was her mother who answered. "No. We're simple folk, 'Mione. We like simple things that we can understand."

She bit her lip, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, and continued "This whole magic thing has made me feel like a kid in a candy store without permission. I'm amazed at the things you people can do--"

  
'You people.' Again the distancing between them.

"—but it does really make me feel uncomfortable…It's not my world. I don't understand it, and I'm even a bit frightened of it." She steadied herself. "Sorry, love."  
  
Hermione nodded, trembling a little herself. A new emotion was trickling down her conscience. Guilt. But maybe it was better to have these things out in the open?

"I wish I could show you what it's like for me, but I doubt it's even possible. I'd love to have you at Hogwarts--"

Even if I'd die of embarrassment. The thought of what Malfoy would say made her shudder.  
"—so that you could see everything…I'd love you to be magical; you don't know how many nights I've dreamt of having a proper magic family--"

"I think we do," said her father. "Probably as much as we've dreamt of having a proper, normal, non-magical daughter, who goes to a proper school, has proper friends who don't save the universe as we know it every year, and can't make things happen that are totally against the laws of physics!"

Her lips trembled. "How DARE you say I'm not normal!"   
"Well, you could hardly call being magical 'normal' love, could you?" The conciliatory, placatory tone of her mother's voice made Hermione's cheeks flame in anger. "Yes, I bloody well could! It's not my bloody fault that you're only muggles!"

At the sudden silence, she knew she'd gone too far, and waited quietly for what would happen next. Dad and Mum shared a long glance, before they both nodded, and turned back towards her.

"As only a muggle, Hermione, I'd like to advise you that your period of residence in this abode has abruptly terminated." Dad was on his feet, breathing heavily, and glaring at her. The authority had returned to his figure, but it brought with it fury, a far less pleasant visitor. "Get out. Get your things, and leave. Go to a proper magic family then; let them take you in. You'll have your lovely little magic world, without muggle relatives to be ashamed of, and we'll have our nice normal existence restored, without a walking, breathing impossibility floating around the house and talking about things that do-just-not-happen!"  
  
"Right." She lifted her chin. "I'll go to the Weasleys' then. Goodbye." Turned on her heel and swept up the stairs. Packed her trunk and a couple of bags, and flounced downstairs again, Crookshanks in a carrier on top of the pile. 

She made it outside to the end of the street before she remembered that the Weasleys had gone to Romania to visit Charlie, and they'd taken Harry with them.


	2. The Luggage is Introduced

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WITCH IN EXILE

By Tailchaser

Chapter Two: The Luggage is Introduced

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Disclaimer: All the characters and places from the Harry Potter books belong to J.K. Rowling. The Luggage belongs to Terry Pratchett, and is a - I'm not sure if citizen is the right word - of the Discworld.

If you had happened to wander through Diagon Alley that night, and managed to tear yourself away from the entrance to Knockturn Alley and the enticing shadows that lurked there, you would have seen a mysterious pile of robes, fur and canvas bundled up under a tree next to one of the entrances to Muggle London.

The pile had originally intended to stay at the Leaky Cauldron, but had given up its last sickles for a ride on the Knight Bus. Next morning would be the earliest it could changes some muggle currency. So the pile slept under an oak, and sometimes it stirred and emitted a muffled sighing sound. Once it miaowed. But the man who swept the steps of Flourish and Blotts told himself firmly that he didn't hear that. 

That last example of innocent, aware life in the alleyway had long since returned to a little unit and a curly-aired fiancé when the dark figure stepped out onto the cobblestones. His eyes flicked once across his surroundings, examining every detail, and when they were satisfied he began to walk along the street. He strode awkwardly, favouring one leg, gazing into the half-light warily. The little street lights flickered almost shyly on a face ravaged with tiredness and… something else. It could have been guilt that lurked underneath the self-deprecating sneer. It could have been sadness; it could have been pain.

A shudder. Now it was pain, that glanced through the figure's dark eyes. He clutched his robes tighter and tighter to his bony frame, hugging them as close as the slippery, shiny fabric would allow. It wasn't snakeskin and it wasn't silk, but something indefinable, something cold and fluid. Whatever its origin, it offered no real warmth, and the person wearing it shivered and wished, again, for a decent cloak of wool or cotton. 

But that would hardly have been suitable where he had just been. Hardly suitable. Certainly not appropriate.

Oh, no. 

He stepped around a body sprawled across the stones. As an afterthought, the man stooped over to check the body's pulse. A firm beat, and a strong smell of alcohol and unwashed wizard, assured him that this member of society was probably at his best unconscious. At the very least he wouldn't cause any harm to anyone.

The figure in the hated robes straightened up, and his face was a study of contrasts. The expression that gazed down at the drunk could have been one of pity, if it weren't also just a bit envious. A moment, and it was gone. The man's face was still once more.

It was at this time, while collecting his thoughts, that the figure's gaze fell upon the aforementioned pile, snoring softly underneath the oak tree. Puzzlement. In the scene that was Diagon Alley after dark, this was a picture that did not belong.

Bemusedly, the wizard chewed his lower lip in thought. As he tasted bitter copper, his senses began to reel, and he became aware once more of the blood that stained his mouth and hands. His stomach rolled, but he had purposely not eaten anything so the heaving that followed, though racking, was dry. He coughed; wiped his mouth on his sleeve, knowing that the majority of the stains would remain until he scoured them off.

The wizard coughed again. No longer asleep, the pile sat up with a start. "Professor Snape!?" it yelped, and the dark wizard found himself locking eyes with Hermione Granger. 

It could have been a moment before the wizard found words for his thoughts, or it could have been twenty. Or more. He coughed, only this time it sounded as though he were nearly choking. "Miss Granger. Ever the bad penny, I see." 

He couldn't see her face, but he knew that voice. Always offering suggestions and knowing better than everyone else in her class… Even if he didn't exactly *like* her, he _did_ respect her intelligence. It was almost a pity she was a Gryffindor, really, he mused; as a Slytherin she would have had a far greater opportunity to shine…

"Professor. What are you doing here? Nobody sent you to look for me, did they?" She said this quickly and breathlessly. 

Snape allowed himself a brief, humourless chuckle. "Do you really believe that you are the centre around which everyone's deeds revolve? I assure you, I have my own reasons for being in Diagon Alley at--" he checked his watch "--nearly half-past one in the morning."

And let that suffice, he added silently. 

"Oh." And then, slightly muffled, "If that's all then, Professor, I suggest you do whatever you're here for, and let me go back to sleep."  
  
Amazed, he nearly laughed, but choked it back into a noncommital sound. "Really?"  
  
"Really." She sounded as though she had her robe over her mouth, or her face buried into a pillow. She _didn't_ have a pillow here, did she? As the notion came to him, Snape found his lips quirking. Oh, dear.

He gave into them and smiled. In this light, there was no way she could clearly see his face. Another thought came and the smile died. He would have to be careful she didn't get a proper glimpse; he felt in no way inclined to explain the bloodstains.

"Much as I might like to, Miss Granger, I think it would be better if you came with me."  
  
"Why's that?" Clearer, now. She was watching him, he was sure of it.

Because I've just been to a Dark Revel and I know I'm being watched. Because if you stay here now you've been seen talking to me, my…colleagues will come along and 'visit' you, and they will _not_ leave you alone until they know exactly what you were doing talking with me. Doubtfully even then…no, child, you're far safer with me. No matter how little we *both* like it.

Aloud he only said "Do you actually _want_ to stay in Diagon Alley by yourself? I don't imagine that you can have a great many galleons on you, if you're sleeping out here."  
  
"I have money," she said defensively. "I just have to wait until morning to get it changed into galleons."

"Be that as it may, I still don't like the idea of you staying here by yourself." As soon as he said it, Snape winced and wished he could rephrase it. Now it sounds as though I *care* about her, he thought bitterly. As if _I_ worry about the students of rival houses. His lips curled bitterly. He was disgusted with himself for the way it sounded, but he knew he would hate himself far more if he let the annoying little brat stay exactly where she was, and she died because the Death Eaters had seen her with him. Another death on his conscience to increase the burden he already carried. He would be able to live with himself, he knew that. After all he'd already done, he was still alive; one new death wouldn't be that much more of a burden. Dumbledore wouldn't blame him, even if he knew, but Snape didn't want it. It seemed ridiculous that so many innocents could die, while here he was, still breathing, still existing, someone who deserved it far greater than they.

He heard movement underneath the tree, and moments later, Hermione Granger stood before him, a bag over each shoulder and a pug-faced cat – complete with carrier – in her arms, and her Hogwarts trunk at her feet. Snape stared at her. "If you intended camping out for the holidays, Miss Granger, you certainly came prepared." 

A slight smile quickly crossed her face. "I'm nothing if not resilient, Professor." He wondered at that, but chose not to comment.

Instead, he snorted. "What in the world happened to your hair? I had no idea the Weasley genes were _that_ contagious!"

She coloured, and her eyes narrowed, but Hermione didn't reply, showing a restraint Snape really hadn't expected from her.

"Well? Shall we go?" he motioned impatiently, indicating somewhere around the next block.

The girl looked a bit confused. "Where? Why?"  
  
He sighed. "Home, of course. I can't exactly leave you here, can I? Even if you _are_ a Gryffindor. Minerva or Albus would gut me if they ever found out I did that. But if you don't hurry up and come along, I _will_ be sorely tempted."

Still she didn't move, and Snape wondered what the problem was now. "I'm not going home, Professor. I'm not exactly…welcome there right now."

"By home, I mean Hogwarts. If you have no objections?" She shook her head, numbly though relief showed plainly on her face. Dryly, he continued. "Then, let's go, Miss Granger. Tonight, if at all possible." He turned his head away from her, and Hermione barely caught his next words. "I have to see Albus any way. He has to know about Lucius."  
  
He started walking, and she placed Crookshanks' carrier on top of her trunk, and tapped its lid with her hand. "Come on then," she said, and the trunk shook itself, nearly dislodging the carrier, before lifting itself up to reveal two rows of hairy feet. When Hermione fell into step a little behind Snape, the trunk trundled along beside her, marching with a proud, jaunty gait. 

The wizard eyed it with curiosity. "_That_ is your trunk?"  
"Ummmm…yes. I found it in a second-hand shop at the start of the holidays and it took a liking to me. The shop owner certainly seemed glad to see it go; he only charged me a galleon for it. I still think he undercharged me, but that was all I had left and the trunk had no intention of leaving me."  
  
"It followed you out of the shop?" Snape wondered aloud.

"Actually it grabbed hold of my robes…" She seemed a bit embarrassed.

"I certainly think you were undercharged, by all means," he commented, looking at the cocky wooden trunk that was keeping pace with them. "Then again…why did the shop want to get rid of it?"  
She mumbled something under her breath.

"What?"  
"It, ah, keeps biting people," Hermione muttered, sounding sheepish. Snape eyed the trunk again, with distaste and a good measure of respect. Eventually he said, "Well,_ I_ wouldn't want to tangle with it…that's one nasty piece of –-luggage-- you have there, Miss Granger." The trunk bobbed up and down in assent.

Hermione laughed. "I think it agrees with you, Professor. What about it, luggage? Do you think you're a nasty piece of work?" It bobbed up and down again, smugly. 

Snape looked at them both with an expression normally seen on someone who saw a dragon reading Dickens. Then he looked away and Hermione was sure she heard him chuckle.

Abruptly he stopped. "Right. Here we are." They were standing outside the Leaky Cauldron. He rapped loudly on the door.

Keeping his face in shadow, he asked the round, bleary man who answered "May we use your floo terminal?"  
The man blinked owlishly.

"Whaaaa…?"  
"Floo. Terminal. May we use it?:  
"Sure…I guess…just lemme check…" But Snape had already pushed past the man, and Hermione, closely followed by the luggage, had no option but to do the same. As the luggage sauntered through, the man at the door rubbed his eyes. "That's it, I swear, I'm never having another nightcap again!" 

When Hermione reached the fireplace, Snape was already standing there with a little tin of floo powder. "Just say 'Hogwarts', he instructed. "It will bring you to the room outside the Headmaster's office." She nodded. Then, looking at her trunk: "But how…?"  
  
He sighed. "Do you think this monstrosity can manage to go through by itself?" The trunk danced on the spot, showing very clearly that it could, and would, take itself through. 

"There's your answer, I think," said Hermione. But she lifted off the cat carrier first, to take through herself.

The wizard handed her some powder. "I should watch to see you don't bungle this, Miss Granger. But then, you don't have Longbottom around to…help you, do you?"  
Despite the sneering tone of his voice, Hermione thought she detected less venom there than normal. It seemed more out of habit than a desire to wound.

Scattering the powder on the flames, she said "Hogwarts", and stepped into the hearth, where the world began to spin. 

Hermione fell out onto a lush maroon carpet, a bag to either side of her, and cat carrier in front, Crookshanks yowling in protest. She blinked at the carpet for a moment, then, heeding the dizziness in her skull, shut her eyes. _Much_ better. Nice just to lie here, quietly, calmly, with the carpet cool and flat beneath her cheek…

"Not the world's best floo traveller, are we, Miss Granger?" Snape purred smoothly. "May I say that your trunk is a lot better at this than you?"  
"No you bloody well may not, you bastard," Hermione told the carpet, not caring if he heard her or not. She felt a slight touch on her shoulder. Snape?   
  
The touch moved. Cold. Hairy. Luggage. "Ahh!" Dimly, she heard Snape snicker. "I think it's worried about you!"

"Damn you, _Professor_!" He seemed to find this even funnier. "And you, do you mind not standing on me so I can get up?" The Luggage shifted, still nosing her shoulders with its feet.

She heard movement on the other side of her. Then the luggage jumped off her, snarling. Hermione sat up gratefully, and quickly lest it change its mind, to see her trunk charging at Snape, lid snapping violently. She laughed, and it circled him for a moment, rattling and clanging, looking for all the world like an oversized, wooden terrier. "Call it off, Miss Granger!" His voice was still amused, but there was an edge of annoyance to it.  
  
"Okay, that's enough." The lid shut and the trunk returned to stand docilely at Hermione's side. She patted the lid gently; the chest rubbed itself lightly against her legs. 

"If you're ready now?" Snape asked, glancing towards the door to Dumbledore's office. Hermione nodded, and only now glanced around the room they were in. She'd only been up here once or twice, as a prefect, and she'd always been too nervous about having to go see the Headmaster about another student to take any notice of her surroundings. 

He knocked on the door, and they heard Dumbledore answer. Snape looked at Hermione for a moment. "Stay here, Miss Granger, and try to keep that monstrosity of yours civil!" She snickered like he had earlier, and he glared. 

"I will tell Dumbledore of your presence, and no doubt he will arrange something, with Madame Pomfrey most probably, for your accommodation here until school starts." 

"Alright, Professor. And Professor?" Hermione took a deep breath. "Thank you." Snape looked at her in surprise. Then he entered the office, closing the heavy wooden door firmly behind him, and left the girl, the cat and the temperamental trunk to study the pattern of the grains in the wood.

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Author's Notes

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, it was incredible to see so many people had read this story! I'm really amazed. 

NB: Hermione is going to be in seventh year, so I intend to change ch. 1 to reflect this. I think I said she'd been at Hogwarts for 6 years, but was only 16, (or so her mother thought). Don't know how I ended up with that; sorry!

Gates – thanks for telling me when Hermione's birthday is. I'll update chapter one to fix this shortly.

Sunshine – Wow. Your comments really inspire me to write more!

Strega Brava – I'm glad you like it. I'll email you each time I update, if you like.

PotionsMastersMistress – I love your name! I've always been surprised that Hermione's parents just accepted magic so easily, too.

Cammie – I think I've answered your question!

Jade – you make me so happy! I could get drunk on reviews like yours!!


	3. Things Are Discussed and Plans Are Made

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WITCH IN EXILE  
by Tailchaser

Disclaimers: The characters from the Harry Potter books belong to J.K. Rowling, and no infringement of copyright is intended. I'm not making any money out of this. The luggage is from Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, and the inspiration for this story comes from the very many excellent fanfics out there, Severus/Hermione and quite a few others as well.

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Chapter Three: Things are Discussed and Plans are Made.

As soon as the heavy door clicked shut, Snape leaned back against it and shut his eyes, as weariness stole back into his posture. With exhaustion and the aching pains that still lanced throughout his body, his façade crumbled rapidly. The wizard trembled.

One hand twitched violently in the fabric of his robes, detesting the cloth and what it stood for; yet, he needed something to hold on to, something to grasp that wouldn't belie his weakness to the man he had come to see. Though that man, more than anyone, knew and understood what his colleague suffered every time he donned this garb. He alone would appreciate the effort involved in keeping the evidence of this suffering from a student.

Dimly Snape was aware of Dumbledore moving around the desk, and the sound of a spell being cast.

Then a thick, warm cloak burrowed its way around his shoulders, and he gratefully leaned into the welcoming heat and let it wrap itself around his body. 

Dumbledore had reached the door where Snape stood. "How bad was it, Severus?" he asked gently. 

  
Another shudder racked the thin frame. "Cruciatus."   
"Drink this, then." And he felt a hot cup being pressed into his hands. Appreciatively, he raised his head and looked into the creased brown face, the radiant blue eyes, that were right now clouded with worry for him. He sipped the chocolate. It wouldn't have surprised him, if Dumbledore had slipped something stronger into the cup as well. 

Snape sighed wearily. "It's begun, Albus."  


The Headmaster nodded slowly. "I know."  
  
A shadow crossed the other's face. "Why do I bother, then, doing…this, if you find out everything anyway?"  


"You told me, Severus." A slight smile. "Your face. I knew as soon as you entered the room. But the details must wait until you are up to filling them in for me."  
  
Snape shook his head and began to speak. 

Hermione settled herself comfortably into a chair by the fireplace, and watched the flickering of the flames in the grate. Every so often she would glance over at the office door, but there had been no movement --or sound-- since Snape had entered. What to make of him, she thought.

She knew it had to have been something connected to his role as a spy, which she'd been aware of ever since the end of her fourth year, but what? He was in pain, she could see that, and he purposely wouldn't look her straight in the face. There had to be something he was hiding. Perhaps he had just been to a Dark Revel? The thought both thrilled and terrified her, in a solely academic way, but she thrust it firmly from her mind. The idea of someone getting close enough to the dark lord to spirit away all his secrets was a heady one; in such actions lay the hope for their cause and their dreams of winning what battle might occur. But the danger involved made her shudder. She'd been raised on stories of monsters and demons, believing them to be purely imaginative until she'd turned eleven. Then the books had been locked away. She suspected that her parents, like she herself, weren't sure anymore how much of the stories was fiction and how much was real. So the books had vanished, but the stories, and the images they contained, remained locked in Hermione's skull. She had no problem imagining what kind of creatures might do the dark lord's will; hobgoblins, bent and twisted; things with long teeth and curled and vicious claws; things that moaned and wailed in agony while inflicting terrible pain on others.

A delicious shudder of terror went through her body. She'd always loved ghost and demon stories, but academically, she knew the real monsters that served the dark lord were the human ones. And that scared her for real. 

There was no vicious thrill about what might happen then, just a sick and twisting pain in the bottom of her stomach. The thought of someone deliberately infiltrating such an organisation was almost too hard to think about. She'd had a hard time accepting Snape as a spy when they'd first found out; Harry, interestingly enough, had taken the information as though he'd known all along, while Ron…was Ron. 

But what to make of Snape? If he had been acting as a spy, why did he insist on taking her to Hogwarts? Wouldn't that blow his cover?

Something else nagged at her and it took a moment's thought before she realised what it was. In all the time since she'd first seen him, Snape hadn't once asked what she was doing in Diagon Alley. He had acted like he usually found students camping out alone with all their stuff; he hadn't asked any questions, even when she'd hinted that she wasn't welcome anymore at home. 

Idly, she ran a hand through Crookshank's fur. The cat purred, and dug his claws into her knee in blissful contentment.

On the other side of the hearth, the luggage leant back in front of the grate and stretched its hairy little feet out to the warmth. 

Severus Snape sighed wearily, and eyed the empty cup before him on the desk before turning his gaze back to Dumbledore. Reliving what he'd seen always left him as drained as enduring it the first time. 

"Albus…there's something else you should know. Hermione Granger is outside. I found her in Diagon Alley, sleeping under a tree, and she recognised me…I had to bring her with me…Death Eaters…being watched…if she'd stayed they would have taken her and…" 

He sunk his face into his hands. "I didn't want another death on my conscience, Albus."  
"I know, Severus. You did the right thing."  


A snort, bitter and sad. "That's a first, then. And it can never atone for all the terribly _wrong_ things I've done. I can never--"

"You had no choice." Dumbledore's voice, soft and soothing, was aimed at smoothing over the hurt, but it only had the effect of a hand run across the surface of a lake; though it soothed it for a moment, it couldn't mollify the choppy undercurrents underneath. 

These undercurrents floated to a surface in Snape's harsh, humourless laugh. "I killed a man, Albus. Is _that_ alright?" 

Dumbledore's eyes were sad and full of sympathy. "Severus-"

"No, please. Save the platitudes. It's too late for him, and they're wasted on me." 

"He was an Auror, Severus. He knew the risks. You ended his pain. Surely, that was an act of kindness, not of cruelty? The Ministry says that--"  
  
"Stuff the Ministry!" Snape refused to meet the headmaster's eyes. 

"It was still murder. And Lucius knows. Has known for a while, I think. I saw him watching me tonight, laughing at the decision I had to make…But for some reason, he's keeping the information to himself. I don't know what he's got to gain by not telling Voldemort that I'm a spy, but it's bound to be something, or he would have told him and doubtless been well rewarded for his news. Lucius never does anything for a reason; the thought of what that reason might be is far more frightening now than that of Voldemort finding out about me. Sooner or later, he would anyway."

He shut his eyes, as if he could push the world away by refusing to acknowledge it. Dumbledore watched him silently, pain for his friend and worry about the situation etched plainly on his face. But he chose not to comment. 

Long ago, he had learnt that Severus Snape refused to let anyone help him bear the burden he had assumed in an attempt to redeem himself for his past sins. Little did he know, that in Dumbledore's eyes he redeemed himself long ago. Perhaps when he first sat in the Headmaster's office, having told him everything he knew, and waiting silently for a verdict. Dumbledore gave him no blame. Though most of the Ministry did, the blame Severus assigned to himself far outweighed that anyone else could give him. His actions tonight would likely bring him an accolade; at the very least, some grudging respect from certain ministry officials. But he knew that Severus would never be able to see it that way. 

"To lighter matters, perhaps?" the Headmaster prompted gently; Snape opened his eyes, slowly, as though they were made of lead. "Yes?"

"I want you to go to the Infirmary tonight, Severus, and let Poppy have a look at you. I know, you can brew anything you need to help yourself, but sometimes it's nice to let someone else look after you for a bit, hmmmm?"

"Lighter matters, Headmaster?" He was tired, so very tired.

"Miss Granger." 

The look on Snape's face suggested a student was the last thing he wanted to have to think about.

But Dumbledore was still speaking. "I'll move Miss Granger's things to the dungeon myself, I think, while Poppy's checking you over…I believe you have a spare room there, Severus?"

"What!?"  
  
"You _don't_ have a spare room? Oh, no matter then, we'll just have to make one." The Headmaster's blue eyes twinkled merrily, and Snape wondered gloomily through the fog that permeated his brain what possible purpose Dumbledore could have for inflicting such torture upon him.

"Miss Granger is _not_ staying in the dungeons," he murmured through clenched teeth. Albus wore a look of feigned surprise. "Why on earth not, Severus?"  
"Because she's a Gryffindor!"

"She can hardly stay in Gryffindor Tower while Minerva's not here, can she?"  
"She's a big girl. I'm sure she'd manage," Snape sneered.

"Well, she'd be pretty lonely…and if she's just been kicked out of home, which I think is what you implied, feeling alone at Hogwarts is the last thing she needs. _This_ is her home now. She shouldn't be made to feel lonely here." 

And he raised an eyebrow at Snape, an inscrutable expression on his face. The younger wizard realised he'd been out-manoeuvred by something he should have expected, and suddenly felt very tired again. Under a wave of exhaustion, his resolve crumbled, and he knew the Headmaster was aware of this, was probably counting on this. "Very well," he said with poor grace, and Dumbledore beamed as if he'd just given him a candy. 

"Wonderful! She can move in with you then. After all, you _were_ responsible for bringing her to Hogwarts…"

The look in Snape's eyes was murderous and just slightly evil. "May I trust then that _you'll_ be responsible for moving all of Miss Granger's…luggage?"

****

Author's Notes

I never dreamt that so many people would review! This is wonderful. Thank you to everyone who commented! I've tried to keep Sev & Hermi as much in character as possible, but I couldn't resist putting the Luggage in. It just sort of suggested itself, while I was trying to work out how she could manage with a cat carrier, two bags and a trunk. I didn't think it'd work out this well, though.

JadeDragon – Sorry, their paths don't cross in this chapter at all, but there _is_ something about the Dark Revel…

jade – I don't think he'd feel very happy at being "good ol' Snape", but I am very touched about all your incredibly inspiring, wonderful comments! Wow! Just for that I'll make an extra effort to write quickly. 

Prettyflower – the strong smell of alcohol was the drunk, but it was just after he checked to see the drunk was still alive -–after coming back from a dark revel, I think Severus would be pretty suspicious of anything that looked like a corpse – that he noticed Hermione. Thanks for your comments! I wonder if Hermione can play soccer? Probably not. It wouldn't be as interesting as reading or studying. 

PotionsMastersMistress – I really like the idea of a wizards' ATM! Can I pilfer it sometime?

Autumnmist & Damiana, who both suggested joining WIKTT – I'd love to. However, I've just tried and I keep getting an error message from yahoo, telling me that the site is restricted. Huh? Can you tell me what I do next? J Thank you for the suggestion, and your comments!

daredevil – you're the only reviewer who seems to have picked up that the Luggage isn't really an original character – though I'm changing it/him a bit, the idea still belongs to Terry Pratchett!  
  
Strega Brava – Yes, I think Severus likes the luggage too; it's a kindred spirit in a way –it acts all nasty and sharp, but it _does_ care, deep down.


	4. Lucius and the Looking Glass

****

Disclaimers: All the Harry Potter characters, and Hogwarts, belong to the fabulous J.K. Rowling. The Luggage, however, is the creation of Terry Pratchett, from the Discworld series – to those people who asked, it/he first turned up in _The Light Fantastic_ – and poor Rincewind will just have to do without. I think it's starting to like living at Hogwarts. 

WITCH IN EXILE

by Tailchaser

Chapter Four: Lucius and the Looking Glass

Hermione Granger woke slowly, carefully stretching out in the soft bed, and burrowed deeper into the warmth of the quilt. The heavy warmth across her feet told her that Crookshanks was still asleep.

For some reason it was dark; either she'd woken far earlier than normal, or Mum hadn't come in yet to open the curtains. But usually, even with the curtains shut, some slight flicker of light made its way into the room, and she woke with sunlight on her face.

She fumbled for her bedside lamp. It wasn't there. Her fingers collided with the firm, cold wood of a four-poster bed instead. They wandered past and found the bedside table and a candle. Hermoine lit it by breathing softly across the wick; as the spell activated, the candle jumped to life and illuminated the little room with a flickering, rosy glow. 

As she started to remember, a soft, choking little sob found its way into her throat. It was so silly, she thought, as she wiped her eyes. She'd still been thinking, dreaming, that it hadn't happened, hoping she'd wake up in her bed at home and find Mum cooking breakfast and Dad putting some coffee on. Home was boring, home was quiet, but home was safe, and where she expected to find herself in the holidays. Not at school. Though, as she came to think about it, that opened up a whole realm of new possibilities too. Having the library to herself, for a start…

And sharing the dungeons with Snape. Oh, hell. Just the perfect way to spend a holiday. 

Fully awake now, Hermione climbed out of bed and looked for her trunk. It was sitting, motionless, at the foot of her bed, feet neatly tucked underneath it. She tapped it with a finger.

"C'mon you, wake up. I need my stuff." The trunk shook itself blearily. Hermione suppressed a chuckle. "Today, please?" In response, the latch loosened under her hand. She swung the lid open and looked inside.

It was empty. 

A million thoughts rushed through Hermione's mind. Nothing managed to come out. She stared at the plain, wooden confines of the chest, for all the world as though its contents would emerge if she just concentrated hard enough. 

"Can you explain this?" Holding a conversation with what was really just a wooden box felt silly, but there seemed no other choice. And her things _had_ been in there when she'd gone to bed last night. 

The trunk shifted guiltily. Then its lid snapped shut quickly, and nearly took Hermione's fingers with it. 

When it opened again, all the contents were back where they belonged. The trunk sidled over to her, rubbing itself sheepishly against her legs. She felt a smile coming on, though she was still extremely puzzled. Still, she seemed to remember a book on strange magical artefacts somewhere in the library; maybe there was a section on sentient articles of furniture. She was beginning to feel that the luggage was more and more that what it appeared. And it certainly _did_ have a mind of its own… 

"Okay, you're forgiven. Just as long as it doesn't happen again, alright?" It bobbed down on it knees in agreement. 

All the same, Hermione removed everything from the confines of the chest before she left the dungeons, and packed it into the old wardrobe she'd missed on a cursory inspection of her room. The luggage seemed a little ashamed of itself, but it didn't protest when she relieved it of its burden. In a way, it looked almost pleased, and once or twice Hermione thought she saw it glancing idly over towards the door. She tried not to think about that. 

She _did_ wonder, though, how it would get along with Hagrid. To her surprise (and she thought, to Snape's as well, judging by his near comical expression) it had trundled uneventfully along to the dungeons the previous night. When Dumbledore first saw it, she noticed something cross his face that might possibly have been recognition. In the surprise of being told she would be staying in the dungeons, she'd forgotten to ask him about it…

-------

"Good morning, Miss Granger! And welcome to Hogwarts, though I must confess it's a little earlier than I expected to be seeing you!" Dumbledore's cheery tones had rung through the little foyer, and Hermione had sat up with a start. She must have dozed off for a bit.

"Hello, sir," she'd said quietly. He had smiled at her, and she'd felt the tension drain from her body. It was alright. One look at Dumbledore's face told her he understood exactly what the situation with her parents was, and he wasn't going to blame her or try to send her home. 

"I've just been discussing with Professor Snape the little matter of your accommodation here, during the holidays, and he has agreed with me that it would be best if we give you a spare room in the dungeons. Not many teachers have elected to stay here this year, and I'm afraid Professor McGonagall is one of those abroad, so we felt it would be much nicer for you than staying in the tower by yourself."

One thing had caught Hermione's eye while Dumbledore spoke. And that was that Professor Snape, lurking sourly in the doorway behind the Headmaster, didn't approve of the word "we". She'd had no doubt that the idea was Dumbledore's alone. Snape would probably, for all his brisk kindness that night, attempt to make her stay as uncomfortable and embarrassing as possible. 

Damn you, she had thought silently, and had glared at him under the guise of brushing hair out of her face. One moment you're almost human, and the next you're about as approachable as a chunk of frozen stone. 

She intended to keep out of his way as much as possible. Snape in a temper wasn't one of her favourite things. Neither, for that matter, was Snape in an icy mood, or Snape at his sneering, nasty best. Hermione had been amused at the train her thoughts were taking. I'm definitely in for an interesting summer, she'd reflected…

"Yes, I definitely am," Hermione repeated to herself as she checked her reflection in the mirror on bed-room table. It was an old one, mounted in a heavy brass ornate frame, and it showed the not-quite-pretty, not-quite-plain reflection of a girl with bushy brown and red hair, dressed in dark green. She'd elected to wear robes instead of muggle clothes; she had some non-school ones that she'd acquired on her last trip to Hogsmeade, and she felt more comfortable here in wizarding garb than in jeans and t-shirt. 

"Are what, dearie?" the mirror asked foggily. She squelched a jump of surprise. What did you think, Hermione? Of course the mirror's going to talk. This is Hogwarts, after all. "Just thinking, I guess," she told it, and it snorted indignantly to itself.

"No one has the decency to start a decent conversation with a mirror any more, do they? They're just always _thinking_. No, the poor mirror is just left all alone in a dark, miserable room, with no one but that overgrown bat for company, and _he_ only comes in once or twice a year to check that students haven't broken in. Of course, I could tell him that they couldn't, not with all the warding charms _he_ leaves up, but he never bothers to talk to the mirror! Never considers my feelings at all!"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Hermione said with what she hoped was the proper amount of sympathy. 

"And so you should be! Why--" the mirror paused mid-tirade. It regarded her suspiciously. "You _are_?" it asked. "You're really, actually, sorry?"  
  
"Yes! I mean, yes, of course I am. It must be terribly lonely, stuck here all by yourself."  
  
"It is, it is." It sniffed. "You really, really, really care?"   
"Yes." She smiled at it like she would a nervous first-year.

"Oh boy, oh boy! This is wonderful! This is really really wonderful!" It stopped squealing and paused, then asked curiously, "What are you doing here, any way? You're not friends with that uncivilised bat, are you?"

Hermione was curious herself. "You mean Professor Snape?" 

"Huh! Some professor! Nasty, creepy person, if you ask me!" Hermione hadn't, but she secretly agreed. Although he _had_ been rather nice about her trunk.

"Really? I guess, he's not very social, is he?"  


The mirror sniffed again. "Not like some people. Now Roie, _she_ was social. Always took the time to come and talk to me. Even used to read to me, sometimes. Lots of interesting things, about spells and potions and history, she'd read, and then she'd ask me questions, and we'd have some really great discussions." It sighed wistfully. "I miss her, you know," it told Hermione. 

"I'm sorry," she said.

"You look a bit like her," it continued, and eyed her objectively. "A bit on the skinny side, and _her_ hair was black, but other than that, you look quite a bit alike." A thought seemed to strike it. "Say, do you think you might be related?"  
  
Hermione screwed up her face in thought. ("Don't do that!" the mirror objected. "You'll get wrinkles!")  
  
"I don't know," she said finally. "I think all my family are muggles. Still…" she hesitated. "Tell me about her?"

A dreamy look came over the mirror. This manifested itself by the glass clouding slightly, until Hermione could no longer see her own face, but a pale milky white and blue mist. "A real lady," the mirror's voice floated from the cloudy depths. "Genteel, elegant, and as intelligent as they come…"

"Did you used to belong to her, then?" Hermione was fascinated. She'd never heard of a magical object getting so attached to its owner before. 

Well, except for the luggage.

But the mirror snorted. "No, I belonged to a bloody friend of hers. Though what she ever wanted to be friends with in him was always well over _my_ head!" Looking at the ornate frame, she forbore to comment.

"Arrogant thing, really. Never bothered to talk to me, either. Just a quick glimpse at his face and off he'd go, sometimes with his robe on backwards or his hair sticking up in all directions! Never had any bloody respect for the niceties!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Hermione said again, thinking once again how ridiculous this whole conversation was.

"You are?" it asked again. She nodded.  
"You really _are_ a lovely girl! What's your name?"   
"Hermione," she told it. 

It seemed to radiate joy. "Lovely name! I like it. You aren't staying, are you?" it asked hopefully.

"Only until the end of the holidays."

"That's just too bad," sniffed the mirror. "I was really getting to like you. You're really nice and smart, and I bet you'd probably read to me, too. Do you think you might?"  
  
Bemusedly, Hermione nodded. 

"You _are_ a lovely girl…just like Roie, too. Did I tell you I miss her?"  
  
"I think so," she replied, and absently checked her watch. If she didn't hurry, she'd probably miss breakfast. Not that she couldn't get something from the kitchens, but she wanted to talk to Dumbledore, and she felt a bit --funny-- approaching him in his office.

The mirror noticed her movement. "Ah, well, off you go, then. Don't forget to tell me all about your day!"

Hermione left the room to a murmured strain of "lovely girl, so like Roie, quite a lady…not a bit like that nasty, malfeasant bat at all!"

One thing is for certain, the young witch thought as she hurried along the corridors, the luggage and that mirror are going to get along famously! She was starting to understand why Snape never went into that room more than necessary. Roie must have had the patience of a saint. Still, it did have its own certain charm, though she couldn't imagine Snape putting up with the mirror's incessant chattering any longer than he needed to. 

Hermione wondered why the mirror was locked away in the dungeons now. Perhaps Roie had been killed in the war with Voldemort? In that case, who did it belong to? Snape, or Hogwarts? Still… She almost turned around and went back and asked, but her rumbling stomach reminded her that there were more important things that needed doing, and one of them was breakfast.

Maybe she could ask Snape. The idea made her chuckle. She was planning on talking to Snape, when she didn't have to? But it _would_ be nice to find out about the mirror. Remembering her half-hearted promise to read to it that night, she sighed, and made a mental note to drift down to the library and find something suitable. It had mentioned potions and history, hadn't it?

Then she shook herself, and continued on her way to the Great Hall, and the Very Good Idea of getting something to eat. 

Snape's morning was filled with a lot less conversation than Hermione's, which, considering his current frame of mind, was probably a good thing, since he would have bitten off the head of anyone who chanced to speak to him.

The reason for his particularly foul mood was busying herself at the potions cupboard in the hospital wing, humming tunelessly but loudly. The sound grated on Snape's raw nerves. "Will you stop making that incessant racket, woman?" he asked plaintively. Disgusted at the way his voice came out, he scowled.

Poppy Pomfrey turned around to look at him, and she clearly wasn't sorry or intimidated by his glare. "Go back to sleep, Snape," she told him firmly, and distinctly heard his teeth grind. Rolling her eyes, she went back to organising her cupboard.

"When can I leave?"  
  
"When I say you're ready, and not before."  
  
They'd had this discussion already, last night as soon as he'd turned up, wearing a sour scowl that told said plainer than any words, 'I'm only here because Dumbledore insisted and now that you've seen me, I'll be leaving.' It was a scowl the mediwitch was well acquainted with. She sometimes thought he must have an entire catalogue full of them, ready to produce one for every occasion he came up against.

So she'd ignored it, as she always did, and pushed him over towards a bed.

He was perfectly fit and able to leave, Snape insisted. He was fine, just a little tired. Poppy was adamant. He had to stay. He wasn't hurt, he maintained. Nothing wrong with him. He wanted to be up and around and doing. He wanted a proper meal, not some water the house elves had dragged a chicken through and called it soup. His ribs were fine, or rather they would be if she'd just take off this confounded bandage she'd wrapped so tightly around them. Poppy remained with the patient, trying to distract him with light conversation about the latest issue of Ars Alchemica and reminding him about twenty times a half hour that he wasn't allowed to leave yet, not until she said so.

The patient sulked.

Eventually Poppy's cupboard was as well-organised as she could make. Not surprising, thought Snape, as she'd packed and unpacked it about four times in a blatantly transparent excuse for staying in the room to keep an eye on him. 

She turned to him, and he had the feeling she was sizing him up, noting the extent and the condition of all his injuries. "I have to go see Hagrid now; I've promised to have a look at Fang for him. He thinks he's got something stuck in his paw." Her face showed her enthusiasm for the task.

Snape chuckled nastily. "Do have fun, Poppy, won't you?" he purred. 

She glowered. "I swear, that man and his dog…they're as impossible as each other." He smirked again.

"I hope you enjoy yourself." His face was innocent, but a devilish mirth danced in his dark eyes. Poppy knew she wouldn't be able to keep him locked in the hospital wing much longer. For all her protestations earlier, he really _did_ heal quickly…Even if he never would tell her what was wrong with him, and she had to work it out through guesswork. She'd become pretty good at that over the years, between him and the students, none of whom ever wanted to admit what they were doing that had landed them in a bed under her watchful eye.

Collecting a few nasty looking instruments and potions, Poppy packed a small satchel and drifted out the door, an expression of strong unease plastered across her face. 

Snape contemplated the ceiling for a while. Every time he was in here, he always found himself staring at the ceiling sometime during his stay. Then he flicked through the pages of Ars Alchemica, though he'd already read this edition when it came out. He contemplated ripping out pages and making paper aeroplanes like he had when he was in here as a student, but dismissed that because Poppy would probably make him stay an extra week as punishment. No, it wouldn't be good to irritate her any more than normal while he was on her territory and subject to her power. That thought irked him, but it was worth remembering. 

It had to be the middle of the day by now, so he couldn't sleep. Severus Snape had never been able to stay in bed late or doze off during the daylight hours. So he lay there, deeply frustrated, and let his thoughts drift. Ultimately, his mind kept drifting back to the events of the previous night, the Dark Revel, and the pale face and oily tones of Lucius Malfoy. 

-------

"So pleased you could join us, Severus," Lucius purred, and gestured with one elegant hand for a house-elf to take his guest's cloak. They strolled into a high-ceilinged ballroom… 

He could still see the man's face as he lay, hunched into a ball. Much of his skin lay in shreds around his shaking, pulsating form. Exposed nerves quivered in a gelatinous mess; veins bled life-blood out in gushing rivulets to congeal in sticky, slimy pools.

Snape felt faintly sick.

"Severus, meet Rodney. Rodney, this is Severus. Say hello, Rodney." The bundle on the floor quivered, oblivious to rational thought or sound. Lucius turned to Snape with mock dismay in his eyes. "I'm so, he doesn't seem to be very sociable today. You can introduce yourself later." And he sneered, a twisted, malevolent gleam that led Snape to wonder, as he had before, how tenuous Lucius Malfoy's link to sanity really was.

Rodney. He knew that name from somewhere, though. 

Rodney made a wretching noise that wailed off into a high, despairing screech. Violently he convulsed. "What, no sharp words for Patty, anymore?" Patricia Parkinson purred silkily, leaning over the prone form to whisper where his ear had once been. "You were so full of sharp words for me once. You called me a powerless slut…who's powerless now, hmmmm? Who's the one begging for mercy?" She laughed, viciously. "Poor child."

Lucius snorted. "And this is the Ministry's best." 

It came to Snape with a sickening rush. Of course. The headlines of the Daily Prophet had talked about nothing else for weeks, when senior Auror Rodney Lynn went missing from his London home two months earlier.

He forced his features into a sneer of his own. "With a Minister like Fudge, frankly I'm surprised that the Ministry even produces anything like Lynn."

Lucius laughed. "Yes, you're right," he mused. "He lasted quite a while, considering. Still…I shall certainly enjoy breaking the rest of the ministry's finest. With our Lord soon to join us in the flesh--" and he laughed nastily at the irony "--no pun intended, I assure you, it shall be a very enjoyable little…pastime indeed."

Snape's stomach turned. But his face was unchanged when he drawled, "Perhaps our Lord could show us new ways to…indulge ourselves with the Ministry's finest." Lucius shot him a look.

"Me, you mean. Your distaste for anything of this nature is legendary, Severus." His face twisted. "Perhaps that's why I enjoy showing it to you so much."  
  
"Undoubtably," Snape replied. 

Patricia Parkinson made a little mewling noise, and the body she was straddling jerked as an artery wall gave way, spraying her, Snape and Malfoy with glistening red drops. Grimacing in distaste, Snape tried to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but the shimmering fabric wouldn't absorb any of the blood. Lucius noticed his movement and chuckled mirthlessly. "Some stains will never come off, Severus. Better to bear them with pride. But then…" he paused. "You never were one for the…higher delights, were you?"  
  
"I prefer to take my pleasures elsewhere," Snape said dryly.

"Yes, with your books, and with your potions…" he sighed dramatically. "Does anything that doesn't reside on parchment or within a bubbling cauldron ever please you, Severus?" 

"Rarely." 

"I thought so." His eyes moved over to Patricia, and he smiled. "Come, my dear, I think you've had enough of our lovely Mr Lynn's charms for tonight, don't you?"   


She pouted. "Lucius!"  
"Now, Patricia!" Malfoy's voice was commanding and hard. Then, he dialled the silk into it again, and it was almost a caress when he breathed, "Severus hasn't yet had the chance to introduce himself to our little friend. I'm sure he wouldn't want to-" he smirked at Snape through half-closed lids "-miss the opportunity…would you, Severus?"  
  
Dryly, Snape said, "My life would be desolate without it," and the other wizard laughed. "As I thought, my _friend_. Come, love." This last to Patricia, who was standing up and slinking towards them, her tongue running provocatively over the blood on her lips.

"Good evening, Severus," she purred, and smiled lazily at him. 

He gave her a mocking half-bow. "Patricia. How delightful to see you again."

"But of course," she taunted, then drifted away to the far side of the room, eyes locked firmly on Jeremiah Avery and his little clique, who laughed and beckoned her to join them. 

"Now, Severus," drawled Malfoy, "Come along and meet Rodney. I'm sure he's been…_dying_--" again that half laugh "--to make your acquaintance." 

They stood over the prone figure, Snape noting with clinical detachment and Lucius with unhidden exultation the way the nerves twitched violently with every gasp breath the Auror took. Every slight movement sent the blood rushing through his veins a little faster, that little bit quicker to pool and congeal around him. The remains of his face were pale and inhuman in their pain.

"Remarkable," Snape said, looking up at Malfoy. "How long have you had him?"  
  
"Oh, months. Collected him from his home, brought him to mine—- though he didn't seem to enjoy the hospitality, his loss, of course-"

"Of course," murmured Snape.

"--and we had a few, cosy little chats, when he could be persuaded to impart his delightful conversation skills to the cause." 

  
He leered knowingly. "Not much of a talker, though…much more inclined to _physical_ things, don't you think?" He gave the body a vicious kick and it jerked violently again, spraying them with more blood. Lucius took Snape's hands and smeared them in the liquid that coated his own. "Now is a time to rejoice, Severus," he murmured, and he leant over until there was barely an inch between his feverish eyes and Severus' own. "Now we celebrate our Master's imminent return. Nothing can stop him now, no pitiful agents of the Ministry can stand against his glory. Everyone should join him and come to us in truth, and they shall share in our victory. Those who would stand against us, or even--" and his face twisted into a sneer again "--_betray_ us, will feel the power of our Lord's displeasure." His tongue played over his lips, his laughter cold.  
  
He pulled away from Snape but his gaze never wavered. "I would not like to feel our Lord's displeasure, Severus," he murmured. 

Snape didn't blink. "Then don't betray us, Lucius, and you're sure to be alright." But inwardly he was shaking.

Lucius smirked idly, his eyes falling once again upon the fallen Auror. "Quite a sight, isn't he?"  
  
"Quite," said Snape. "I hardly feel I can add anything to your little…'creation'."  
  
"Oh, do try, Severus." He waved a languid hand, the threatening posture gone, though the cruelty lurked in his pinched, grey eyes. 

"Very well, Lucius." He would interpret that in his own way. Without hesitation, Snape pointed his wand at the pitiful bundle on the floor and spoke. "Avada Kedavra."  


Those sightless eyes, caught in the throes of death, branded themselves coldly in his mind. The inhuman screams of anguish still echoed in his ears.

A soft touch, lightly, on his cheek. "Sentimental, Severus?" whispered Lucius, twirling his wand through the strands of the other's hair.

"No, Lucius. Just…" he let the silk slide through his own tones, and raised one causal eyebrow. "Just a little…curious about the sport you find in torturing something unable to know what's being done to it… Hasn't the fun long gone out of it by that stage?"  
  
"Oh, no…my friend." The hair stood up on the back of Snape's neck. "The fun, for me, is only just beginning." 

-------

A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts. Snape snarled quietly, inwardly grateful for the distraction. "What is it?"  
  
Hermione Granger stuck her head around the door and said "Hello, Professor. Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Meanwhile, down in the dungeons, the luggage had decided to go for a stroll…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

****

Author's Notes

Annabella – I tried to email you when I updated but I couldn't get through to your address! I'm sorry!

Queen of Ice and Sorrows – And thank _you_ for reviewing, and saying so many nice things! I'm glad you like it.

Eve – I'll try to update as regularly as possible; maybe Rincewind will have to enchant his own trunk…

Mylaea – if I work out how to log on to WIKTT, I'll certainly let you know. And please do start uploading more of Broccoli, I've been reading that avidly!  
  
Lillith – Hermione does seem to have a tendency to see value in things that others discard, doesn't she? I've never thought of it in that way before! Thank you!

Cammie – all of Lucius' secrets will be revealed…eventually.

Prettyflower – I wish I could work WIKTT out. I think you do have to be a yahoo member to join, though. 

PotionsMastersMistress – I might use the ATM sometime then! I also like the idea I read somewhere – I think it was Slytherin Rising – about Gringott's cards, which I think is something similar. I'm still trying to get yahoo to let me join WIKTT.

arcee – that is an _excellent_ idea, and I hope you don't mind if I incorporate it! I was wondering how I was going to get around the issue of custody – she might be 18 in the wizarding world, after all, but the muggle one doesn't accept the use of time turners when calculating ages. To them, she's still a child…and I think her parents would be starting to feel a little guilty now…I don't think they really imagined she _would_ just walk out (or they thought she'd come back, or her friend's parents would be in contact with them as soon as she arrived…)

V Lynne – I like that. Hermione Granger and the amazing assortment of temperamental creatures in her life. Don't know how Ron might feel being classed as a 'temperamental creature', though! J 

JettGirl – Don't worry, the luggage will star! It goes exploring in the next chapter, to Hermione's dismay. 

silverstar - Hermione's not too happy about staying with Snape, but it _will_ work out, in the end.

Deborah – More luggage is coming!

jade – WOW! That's all I can say. Your comments are very inspiring! And I'm glad you think everyone's so much in character, I've been trying.

****


	5. Quills & Mirrors

**__**

Disclaimer: All the recognisable characters from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter novels belong to her, and the Luggage belongs to Terry Pratchett. The idea of Rowena's nickname being 'Roie' comes from a character of this name in Ruth Park's The Harp in the South. This story is by no means intended to rip-off either of these authors; nor is it an attempt to rip-off any other fan-fiction authors who might have dealt with similar themes in any way throughout their stories.

****

Witch in Exile

Chapter Five: Quills & Mirrors

Mrs Norris was stretched out on the cobblestones of a sunny corridor when she met the trunk. At first she regarded it with surprise, then with suspicion, and finally with downright hatred, when its lid swung open menacingly and started to clang. She yowled. She had never encountered anything like it.

The luggage had never encountered anything like Mrs Norris either. If it wasn't sure exactly what to make of Crookshanks, at least he belonged to the Mistress, and the luggage was quite happy to…tolerate…anything that belonged to the Mistress. 

But this strange little furball that was hissing in such an alarming fashion most certainly didn't. It was all alone and unprotected, and the Mistress was nowhere to be seen.

Besides, the luggage was hungry.

In the library, Hermione Granger had flicked pages until she'd come across the reference she'd been looking for. And it was this book she brought with her now to the hospital wing, and Professor Snape, for it raised a most interesting puzzle, which she hoped that he could help her with. If he would. Dumbledore had been her first choice, but he, master of disappearing opportunely, was nowhere to be found. She still wondered about that time in their first year that meant they'd gone down that trapdoor by themselves, resulting in Harry defeating Voldemort and them winning the House Cup for Gryffindor; though 'not at Hogwarts' when they'd asked Professor McGonagall, the supposed summons from the Ministry had not kept Dumbledore from turning up exactly when he was needed.

Flitwick was no help, and McGonagall, regrettably, was in Ireland studying the Transfiguration techniques used by the Sidhe. Hermione had once helped her order her notes on the subject. 

So she firmly told her stomach to go back where it ought to be, instead of floating around near her breastbone, where it was, and walked into the hospital room.

Snape returned her greeting perfunctorily.

He didn't look as off-colour as he had during the night-– though with Snape, who could tell? She stifled a nervous laugh-– but he didn't seem as forbidding as normal, either. Hermione put that down to Madam Pomfrey's décor. Ruffled pillows and comforter would make even Arugs Filch look momentarily not as bad.

It did nothing for the sour look on Snape's face, though. More likely, it was at least part of the cause of it.

"You wanted something, Miss Granger?" The wizard regarded her with clear amusement as she pulled up a chair and sat hesitantly beside the bed, cradling a heavy, leather bound tome in her arms. The girl's slender fingers played nervously across the symbols stamped on the cover, tracing their patterns with light, trembling touches.

"I wanted to ask you a few things, if you don't mind…"  
  
"Go ahead, I'm not doing anything anyway." And his eyes roamed the room dismissively, disgusted with the surroundings. When they came back to the bed, he actually shuddered.

Hermione nodded, and smiled a little. "I can see that-"

"_Most_ observant."

"-but where's Madam Pomfrey?"

Snape made a half-snorting, half-choking sound. "Hagrid wanted her to have a look at Fang," he explained delicately, and his thin lips curved into what was definitely an evil smirk. "He has a sore paw." The way he said it made her laugh. Hermione found herself meeting his expression with a similar one of her own. "Poor Fang," she said innocently.

"Poppy went out with enough equipment – and padding – to suggest she thought she'd been asked to treat Norbert." The wizard snorted properly.

Hermione started, a puzzled look on her face, and the library book momentarily forgotten. "You know about Norbert?"  
  
He nodded. "Yes, all the staff do – after all, with Hagrid sobbing into his beard for weeks afterward everywhere he went, it would have been a little hard to _not_ find out. Besides, Mr Malfoy informed me quite gleefully that Hagrid was keeping an illegal dragon, and I made my own inquiries." He paused, and she could see he was smiling again, just a bare twitch of his lips, a small hint of a sneer. "I wasn't sure _you_ knew, though, but I had a suspicion you were involved in Norbert's 'getaway'."

"Perhaps I'm involved in more things than you know." And she shrugged, deliberately trying to seem casual to stop him asking questions about Harry and Ron's involvement. 

"I doubt it." His dark eyes watched her closely. "I have never met a Gryffindor whose secrets I could not discern within a moment of their time…You might be clever, Miss Granger, but when it comes to hiding things, you are really no different from the rest. Incompetents, open books, the lot of you. If any Gryffindor ever had a secretive bone in their body, I'm sure they'd have it removed in case it was contagious. What did you want to see me about?"  
  
"Two things." It was hard to keep her voice steady, even harder not to throw _Hogwarts, A History_, Ed. 67 with colour supplement and additional notes by current Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, at him and march out. But her own curiosity and desire for knowledge kept her pinned to her chair as firmly as though she'd been tacked there.

"Firstly, I wondered if you knew where Professor Dumbledore was – I asked Professor Flitwick at breakfast, and he checked his office and said he didn't think he was at school."  
  
"Flitwick couldn't find the Headmaster if he were standing in front of him waving a flashy banner."  
  
Hermione dug her nails into the book's cover. A frown crossed her brow. "I highly admire Professor Flitwick," she said, raised her chin and glared at him, "and I don't think you ought to insult him until you can manage to actually teach a class where more than one or two students learn anything except how much they hate you. Sir."

She continued to meet his gaze, even as a thick silence descended on the room and a murky crimson flush started on her cheeks. Hermione burned in shame. I was rude to a teacher! She thought miserably. Oh, he's bound to get me expelled, or at least kicked out of school for the holidays. What has come over me? What would Professor McGonagall think? The thought of her stern Head of House made her tremble even more. She'd understand the circumstances, she had to! But Hermione still felt miserable. He was a teacher, and she'd been rude! Never mind that Harry and Ron would probably carry her around the common room on their shoulders if she told them!   
  
A low moan escaped her lips and she quaked in her seat.

"Oh, I'm well aware of what you think of me, Miss Granger," Snape drawled, and brought her sharply back to awareness. "But the opinions of a student have never had any bearing on what I say, or how I act. You would do well to remember that. If this were school time, I would deduct points from Gryffindor."  
  
"Yes, sir," she said quietly.

"Still…well done, Miss Granger."  
  
Puzzled, Hermione looked away from his face, which was a study in amusement, and stared at the potions cabinet. She flushed even redder. Was that a compliment, from Snape? It sounded like one, if she ignored the way he'd said it.

"Thank you, sir."

"For what?" 

Hermione met his raised eyebrow with her quirk of her lips, and after a moment, he smiled. Point conceded. They sat in silence. 

As she regained her confidence, the blush began to creep away up into her hairline. "So, Professor, _do_ you know where Professor Dumbledore is?"

"Actually, I do." Seeing the interest she was giving him, Snape watched her for a few seconds before continuing. It was…interesting to see her finally find her backbone. Normally she would just hide behind Masters Potter and Weasely. He hadn't thought she'd pull off that imperious tone quite so well, or manage to keep looking at him though obviously scared to the hem of her robes. But even Gryffindors grow up, he reminded himself, and if they couldn't keep secrets for a room full of galleons, they _were_ known for their bravery.

He wondered what Neville Longbottom was doing in that House. 

His eyes narrowed out of habit, as always when he was trying to dislodge a thought he didn't particularly like. Firmly, he pushed Longbottom's pudgy face as far into the depths of his memory as he could. Bad enough that he had to put up with him during semester. He didn't have to intrude on his holiday time as well.

"To my understanding, Miss Granger, the Headmaster will be back this afternoon. I believe his important business had something to do with-" how to phrase this? "-visiting a student's parents. Routine, I should think…"  
  
"Like hell." To his pleased surprise, the Granger girl was regarding him with an irritated glare. "He's gone to see _my_ parents, hasn't he? Tell me. Sir."  
  
He snorted. "Yes, he _has_ gone to talk to your parents."  
  
"Great. Just bloody wonderful." She slumped back in her chair, and passed a hand over her eyes. "I was hoping he wouldn't do anything like this."  
  
"To give Professor Dumbledore credit, he's not really in a position to do anything else, is he?"  
  
"Isn't he?" she asked darkly.

Snape shrugged. "He's the Headmaster. Look at it this way. According to Muggle law, you're still underage, and you are most certainly a citizen in that world as well as ours, so Dumbledore isn't really allowed to let you stay here without permission from your custodians…Of course, knowing Dumbledore, he'd let you stay with or without permission," hearing this, some of the tension drained from her body, "but he likes to try and get the formalities out of the way first."  
  
She nodded. Something else had caught her attention. "You said, 'under muggle law.' Does that mean I'm a legal adult according to the Ministry?"  
  
"You're eighteen, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes…but only by use of a Time Turner…um…" she tried to cover her slip, but failed miserably, and some of the crimson started to creep back into her cheeks. He sneered at her confusion. "Don't think that I'm not aware of your little experimentation with a Time Turner in the course of your studies, Miss Granger. I know all about what you used one for in your third year."  
  
I bet you don't, she thought, but kept that to herself. Explaining about Buckbeak – and Sirius Black – didn't exactly sound like a good idea. Instead, she said "I expect Professor McGonagall told you?" and wasn't surprised when he nodded.

"She was rather pleased at the chance to 'rub in' how well one of _her_ students was doing…but then, she has so little to gloat about, with the likes of Longbottom in her House, that it's understandable."  
  
Hermione bristled. "We won the House Cup!" She protested. "Six times! And Neville's earned lots of points for Gryffindor!"  
  
"Not as many as he's lost," Snape sneered. "I imagine he nearly fainted whenever he was awarded points."  
  
The fact that this was true did not make Hermione any less angry. You low-down creep, she thought.

"You shut up about Neville. You just bloody shut up. He's a fine person and he's worth ten of any bloody Slytherin!"  
  
"Ohhh…" His lips curled.

"_Such_ a Gryffindor," he sneered. "Always leaping to the defence of others weaker than herself…one would think that someone as smart as yourself, Miss Granger, even a Gryffindor, would realise when it was time to throw away the deadwood." 

"What right have you got to insult my friends?" She was on her feet now, the book dumped unceremoniously on the chair.

A twisted half-smile emerged on his thin mouth. "Who needs 'rights', Miss Granger?" he asked, making the sound of her name into something less than savoury. "When do rights come into anything? When does anyone – or anything – respect 'rights'?"  
  
"Anyone with any guts or moral integrity does. Then, being a Slytherin, you probably need me to explain those concepts to you, Professor. Where should I start? Maybe with respecting others?"  
  
Snape's face had barely changed expression; he continued to glare at her, and his trademark sneer stayed firmly in place. But Hermione could not continue speaking beneath the horrible feeling that she'd finally gone too far.

"That's a _very _good idea," he purred. "Perhaps you could explain to me how you Gryffindors respect your Professors. Am I an exception, or are you this 'respectful' to everyone who must try to lodge some little speck of knowledge amongst all this 'guts and moral integrity' of yours?"

Her stomach resumed its residence in her throat.

"They must be honoured to be the recipients of such kind and polite manners. So happy, to have such wonderful, nice, _respectful_ students in their care. Tell me, Miss Granger, did Mr Harry Potter teach you all about politeness, or did you work it all out for yourself?"  
  
'I'm going to be expelled, I'm going to be expelled…' She clenched her hands into tight fists and wavered slightly on her feet. A little thought raced through her mind, laughing jeeringly at her. It said, How could I be so bloody stupid?

"Perhaps Mr Weasley helped you refine your tact. That's certainly something it must to difficult to master alone, I mean, to develop such a _high_ level of skill in this area…it must have taken a great deal of practice, hmmmm, Miss Granger?"

"I'm s-sorry, Professor." The red of shame was back on her face, glowing more than ever. She shut her eyes against the vicious pleasure etched upon Snape's features.

He drawled, "I don't think I quite heard that. Perhaps you could demonstrate your incredible respect for me by condescending to repeat that?"  
  
"I'm sorry. Please don't expel me!" The words came out in a rush, and she opened one eye, and a moment later the other, to find Snape viewing her with an almost proprietary pride at his achievement in making her tremble. You bastard, she thought again, but she didn't have enough strength to do anything but stand silently and wait for him to say something.

Snape's dark eyes flickered. His face smoothed. Then a moment later, he laughed.

"Afraid, Miss Granger?"  
  
She could only nod.

"Then don't insult me."  
"I'm sorry, sir."

"Is it sorrow, or fear, that makes you say that? No matter." The last was in an undertone, as much to the greatly-despised doona or the potions cupboard on the wall as to Hermione.

"Perhaps your righteous ire has led to gaps in your memory. If you cast your thoughts back to your second year, you'll remember that no student can be expelled without the approval of both Headmaster and their Head of House. Neither of them are here…and I doubt they'd want to see such a bright little star go because she lodged her feet in her mouth." His expression became one of disgust. "You can stop trembling, girl, you're not going to be kicked out before you can take your exams."  
  
The audible sneer went unnoticed. Hermione sank wearily in relief back into her chair, remembering only just in time the book she'd left there, and snatching it up with a little gasp. Snape chuckled.

"Perhaps you could tell me the other reason you came to grace me with your presence, then. I take it it has something to do with that monstrosity you're lugging around?" Wondered at his sudden mood change, she accepted the words as a peace offering and bit her tongue before it could get her into even more trouble.  
  
Hermione opened _Hogwarts: A History_ to her bookmark and fixed him with her best studious expression, former embarrassment fading away as she recalled what had brought her here, to him, before he'd made her feel like a nervous first year confronted with the Whomping Willow.

"I found something curious in my room that I thought you might be able to help me with." 

"Really?"   
  
"Yes, really." She found her place on the page. "Listen to this. 'It is believed that the talking mirror, a standard fixture throughout Hogwarts and now many wizarding homes as well, was first the creation of Rowena Ravenclaw. After observing that certain substances responded more strongly to magic than others, she performed a series of experiments, finding conclusively that it was indeed possible to create something resembling 'life' in objects by exposing them to the correct influences and encouragement. Legend has it that her first success manifested itself as a form of the talking mirror we know today; 'life' was engendered in a mirror belonging to Godric Gryffindor as a result of Ravenclaw's experiments. This particular 'magic mirror' possessed a more pronounced temperament than other models produced by Ravenclaw, whose later experiments created the very mirrors that hang throughout the Houses of Hogwarts today. According to Hedgemore, 1651, _Wise Olde Ravenclaw_, the mirro disappeared during Ravenclaw's later years, when the then irascible old witch retired into virtual seclusion. In rumour it resides somewhere within Hogwarts, but if it does, Rowena's looking glass certainly keeps a low profile."  
  
Hermione took a deep breath and looked up at Snape, who was regarding her with a mixture of puzzlement, amusement, and fascination. 

"I am familiar with that passage," he said finally, "but I am unaware as to what it has to do with me."  
  
"Well, there's a mirror in my room – you know Professor Dumbledore arranged for me to stay in the dungeons – and I got into quite an interesting conversation with it this morning…" 

There was no mistaking the grimace on his face. "Yes?" he asked.

"…and I think it might be the original mirror that the book mentions."  
  
"That's quite a leap of reasoning, Miss Granger. What evidence do you have to support your supposition?"

"It mentioned someone named Roie, and I was remembering what the book said about magic mirrors, when I realised that it was going on about someone called Rowena, and the mirror was talking about someone called Roie, and I kept thinking about it, and I wondered if they might have been the same person. It certainly sounded like 'Roie' cared about it a lot…"  
  
"…and Ravenclaw _could_ be expected to care about one of her creations." Snape finished her thought, steepling his fingers under his chin in deliberation. It was an interesting gesture, Hermione decided, on someone lying propped up in a hospital bed. It somehow lacked the usual authority it had when he used it in the classroom – and it had nothing of the icy strength with which he'd blasted her before.

"It's possible, I suppose." Underneath his smooth façade, his interest was well and truly inflamed. He liked a good academic puzzle as much as the Granger girl; he couldn't expect the student who once handed in a twelve-foot essay on the uses of shrinking potions to bring him such a puzzle without some evidence to consolidate her theory.

"I asked it if it had belonged to Roie – Rowena, but it said it had belonged to a friend of hers; it was pretty disgusted about that, but it implied this friend gave it to Rowena, or that it saw a lot of her, regardless. That fits; the friend could have been Gryffindor. And the mirror certainly has more presence than any other I've ever encountered."  
  
Snape shrugged. "Yes it does, doesn't it? It's certainly been here a lot longer than I have, anyway."  
  
"In that room?"  
  
"Probably."  
  
"Which would account for why Hogwarts: A History says its presence at Hogwarts is only rumoured, because hardly anyone would have seen it." She frowned, and added "That would also explain why it feels neglected, then. That poor mirror has no one to talk to, and it's terribly lonely. It must be terrible, sitting on a table in a room no one goes into, year in, year out. Why doesn't anyone talk to it?"  
  
He snorted again. "You've talked to it."  
  
"Yes!"

"Then, you know why. Try putting up with that on a regular basis. It would drive anyone mad."  
  
"Not Roie." She said it with the air of someone pulling out a trump card. 

Snape thought for a moment then nodded, conceding the point. "Or Rowena, as the case may be."

"I wonder…" Hermione started to voice another thought that came to her, but trailed off in concentration, mind racing. Absently, she bit her lip. Bit a hole right into it, in fact. This she only noticed when Snape used the opportunity to point out, in an infuriatingly calm voice, that she was bleeding.

She came back to herself with a start. "I'm what?"  
"Bleeding, Miss Granger. Dripping blood. Leaking bodily fluids…" His silky tones caressed the words mockingly. "If you absolutely must start chewing portions of your anatomy, I suggest you acquire some food before you damage something irreversible."   
  
"I'll do _you_ some bloody damage," Hermione muttered, but she hopped down off her chair and made her way across to the potions cabinet. "There ought to be some Cut-Repair potion in here somewhere, shouldn't there? Ah, here." She extracted a slim, blue bottle from its nook on the shelf, and poured herself a small dose into a glass. Replacing the bottle, she downed the cup and grimaced at the taste. Snape observed in silence. He would have only said something if the young witch selected the wrong potion; after all, a good cup of Skel-e-grow or something similar when it wasn't needed could have disastrous effects, but she was faultless in her choice. Within moments, the skin regrew on her lip, leaving her to finger a rapidly shrinking scab. "I had no idea I did that," she commented idly, shaking her head in bemusement. 

"Deep in thought, hmmm?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Explain."

"When I spoke to it, and it was reminiscing about its beloved Roie, the glass became all fogged and misty, and I could almost pick out images in the 'clouds'. I was wondering if it would be possible to get the mirror to show scenes, and people, on request."  
  
"Sort of like a scrying glass."  
  
"Yes. And then it could show us Rowena, and Godric, and the rest of the Founders, and probably Hogwarts when it was getting built! If we could find a way to then transfer the images to parchment…"  
  
Snape stared at her. There was no guarantee it would work, of course, but he was starting to like her line of reasoning more and more. "It could clear up whole mysteries about the Founders' time," he mused, and Hermione nodded enthusiastically. 

"Perhaps a _describere_ spell, or something similar. Like a dicto-quill for pictures, so it only had to see the scene in the mirror to be able to copy it out. Maybe I could modify the spell on a quill. I think Harry has one; I'll write to him and-"

"I don't think Mr Potter would take too kindly to your destruction of his property, even in the pursuit of study. Besides, it will probably take more than one quill to perfect the modifications of the spell. I'm sure there's some here at school you can use. And remember that we're still not sure that this _is_ Ravenclaw's mirror. If it's not, you could waste a great deal of time and energy altering a dictoquill for nothing."  
  
Hermione wasn't deflated. "I'm sure, it has to be," she said firmly. "There's nothing else it can be…" 

She jumped up and made for the doorway. "I'll go over to the library and see what I can find on dicto-spells, and bring it back here. I won't be too long."

"Go to the staff stores too, then," Snape commented when she was halfway out the door. "There's a box or too of dicto-quills in there. I'm sure you know where the supply cabinet is."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione Granger replied, and she was smiling when she said it.

From the bed, Severus Snape returned her grin with a small, careful one of his own.

"This is the Great Hall," Professor Dumbledore said, indicating the room with an expansive wave of his hand. "This is where everyone has their meals; you can see the four long tables, one of those belongs to each house. The table up the top is where the staff sit, so we can keep an eye on all the students while we're eating. Can't be too careful, you know," he beamed.

Frank and Susan Granger stared around them with a mixture of incredulity and disbelief. Despite what Hermione might have thought, the strangely dressed man who had turned up on their doorstep early that morning _had_ persuaded to come to Hogwarts, if only because they were curious to see where people like him came from. The thought neither of them could escape was that Hermione went to school to become a magic user like this man, and the chatter of her holidays was often filled with references to Professor Dumbledore, "quiet possibly one of the greatest wizards to ever live, after Merlin of course, but then Merlin _is_ somewhat of a legend…"

So it was with puzzlement and bemusement, and no small bit of trepidation, that they had allowed this Professor Dumbledore to shepherd them into their own fireplace, and bring them out into a luxuriously furnished office. Now they were receiving the grand tour. It was hard to know what to make of it.

And where their daughter fitted in. The whole castle was like something out of a crazy dream. It was even stranger than Hermione's tales of spells that levitated you, and a half-giant that was "really friendly once you got to know him, because he hasn't a vicious bone in his body – quite like Fang really, Fang's his dog", or half-sized elves whose sole purpose in life was to serve humans. Already, Susan had nearly fainted when a staircase changed position while they stood on it. ("Not to worry, not to worry, they do that all the time," encouraged Dumbledore, "anything would get restless if it had to stay in the same place all the time! Good thing we don't need a map of this place!")

"Perhaps you could show us where our dau…where Hermione sleeps," Frank said, watching the old wizard very carefully. He didn't trust him. And he didn't trust his castle, either. Better to be back on solid, normal, trustworthy ground. Safe ground.

  
Dumbledore didn't miss the hiccup in his words, and it made him very thoughtful. Perhaps the problem was greater than they'd thought, he mused. All the staff members made a little job out of watching after the muggle-born students, even if they didn't make them aware of it, just to see that their families were coping and everything was alright at home. With Hermione, there had never seemed any need to worry. Dumbledore's thoughts had always been with Harry, and he was starting to inwardly kick himself for his negligence. Obviously, there _was _a need to worry with Hermione. Although the problem wasn't too severe, since she had never, as far as he could see, been mistreated, and she would be taking her NEWTS this year. Soon she'd be an adult witch – and a very good one too, of course. She _was_ a Gryffindor, after all. And Dumbledore beamed. To a former Head of that House, it was clear that all the best students were Gryffindors. 

But he still wanted to smooth things over with her parents. He never liked to see a child rejected by their only family, one of the reasons he was so protective of Severus, when Severus would let him. He had failed him as a student. He wouldn't fail Hermione.

At least, he mused, being muggle-born, there wasn't the opportunity for _her_ to ever have been dumped at the school during the holidays, by parents that never wanted to suffer the sight of her again. 

"Come along then," he said, "Gryffindor Tower is just this way."  
  
But as they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady (who was very curious at their arrival, Sir Cadogan having run ahead to tell her about the scurvy muggle curs that the Headmaster was taking around the school), they ran into a very unusual sight indeed.

Unusual even for Hogwarts, that was.

A large, wooden trunk, bound with golden metal bars across its sides, and latched with a heavy metal lock, was sitting in the middle of the corridor. Around it lay splotches of fur, and a thin leather collar with a little silver bell.

The first other person that the Grangers had seen at Hogwarts stood in front of the trunk, giving it a piece of his mind.

"…And I don't care whatcha are, or where you've come from, but you, you nasty piece of furniture, have eaten my cat, and I want her back! Don't play the innocent with me!"  
  
Who, me? The luggage seemed to say.

"I know you!" He announced triumphantly. "I know all your tricks. I know that you're deliberately out to get me, and poor, poor Mrs Norris-" he gave a loud, sniffing sob, "is the victim! The poor darling never knew what hit her, did she? What did you do to her? How long did she suffer? Tell me! Why have you done this? What did she do to you?"  
  
She scratched my surface. Couldn't this funny man see the marks? The luggage radiated innocence. One of its hairy little feet stood on another and it had to shift position to retain its balance.

The man in the loose pants and long coat seemed to interpret this as guilt. "Feeling sorry for yourself, now, are you?" he hissed at the trunk. "Feeling guilty for what you did to poor Mrs Norris? Maybe you should suffer like she did!"  
  
Maybe you should. Maybe you can join her. The innocence around the chest melted into something far more menacing. No matter that it was a box on a hundred of little legs. For a moment or two, it actually looked threatening. More like it would if it were mounted on a big white charger, and carried a longer curvy blade, and had lots of little sharp teeth filed especially for the job. But it was, after all, a box of hundreds of little legs…though it did a very good job of looking menacing. 

The man obviously thought so, too. He took a few steps back and glared at it from a safe distance. "You shouldn't go around doing things like that to people's cats, you know," he scolded, and shook his fist, but he didn't sound too convinced any more. The luggage had a way of doing that to people.

The luggage itself was wondering when the Mistress would turn up. After it met the strange little furry thing, that was like the Mistress' pet but made even stranger noises – and didn't taste very good at all – it had gone looking for the Mistress, but couldn't seem to find her anywhere. It was in a dilemma. 

"Ah, hello Argus," said Albus Dumbledore, and the man in the long coat jumped with surprise. "Headmaster!"

"Having problems?"  
  
"I'll say! That blasted piece of – furniture - ate my cat, that's what! And it won't give her back!"  
  
The Grangers shared a look that had a little of when can we get out of here, the man's crazy, and that trunk looks familiar. 

"That's Hermione's trunk, isn't it?" her father asked.

The man jumped again. He did really seem to be awfully nervous.

"Hermione's? So you know it, do you?" He folded his arms across his chest and glared at them. They seemed a safer target for his glare than the luggage.

"Well, it looks like hers…" Susan murmured.

Dumbledore said pleasantly, "I believe it is. We're old friends. But it does seem far more attached to Miss Granger than it ever was to me. Ah, well. The changing affections of a suitcase. They can be very fickle, you know." He looked at the others wisely. With the possible exception of the luggage, no one could tell if he was joking or not.

The luggage sat and looked innocent again. If you stared hard enough at it, you would almost swear that it had a little, golden, suitcase like halo. But that was impossible.

"It still ate Mrs Norris," the man called Argus said stoutly. 

They all took a moment to stare at the trunk. "Well, I don't know how we're going to get it open if it doesn't want to be opened," said Dumbledore, scratching his beard. "When it's in a locked mood it doesn't do anything that anyone else wants it to. I'm afraid it's a bit difficult, really."  
  
"This…case has a mind of its own? You're telling us this THING is alive?" Susan was feeling particularly weak. This 'case' was not helping things.

"Yes, it is rather temperamental," the Headmaster told them, eyes twinkling. "You don't think you could have a word with it, do you? After all, it does belong to Hermione, so it might listen to her parents."  
  
"I'm not going near that thing," Susan snapped, and her husband agreed. "That's right," he announced, "We're going home. This bloody trunk is crazy, you're crazy, he's crazy-" directed at Filch "-and this castle is plain hilarious! This can't be real, any of it. It's too much to believe!"  
  
"There are things," said Dumbledore, fixing him with a steely blue glare that had lost nearly all of its twinkle, "that it is better to take on faith than try to find an explanation for. Do you explain the sky? Do you explain why colours are? You can't, so don't try to explain magic either. I fear it would be a task far beyond human comprehension."  
  
Then the smile was back, and he fished in his pocket and brought out a slightly sticky paper bag. "Do you feel like a lemon drop?" the Headmaster asked. 

They didn't. They just felt like getting out of the crazy castle before the corridor leading to the exit changed location, or some monstrosity like this suitcase – that belonged to their daughter, no less! – decided to devour them.

"Can we please go home now?" asked Susan, feeling a headache coming on.

"I think there's one more thing that you need to do here first," Dumbledore replied gently, replacing the bag of lollies in his pocket. "Don't you think you should talk to Hermione? After all, that _is_ why I brought you here – and the thought you might join me in lunch, too, of course – so you can talk to her, and maybe come to an understanding of sorts. You may not like this world she is a part of, but she _is_ a part of it, and it's a part of her, and neither of those two things will change. But she's also your daughter, and I don't think you should push her out of your life just because you don't understand everything in her world. Some things transcend understanding. Some things are far more important than magic, or what's normal, or what isn't, and I think family is one of them."

He clapped his hands. "But I think first, perhaps, we should trundle along to the Great Hall and fast our eyes and stomachs upon the great feast the house elves have undoubtably prepared for us. Shall we?"  
  
Uncertain, unhappily, but unable to see any other option, the Grangers nodded, and the old wizard gave them a beautiful smile. He directed one long glance at Filch before nodding to himself and murmuring something under his breath, then held out an arm to each Granger and said "Let's go, then. Our repast awaits!" 

Deftly he steered them along the corridor, deliberately choosing a route that held as few portraits and wizardly regalia as possible. His guests walked slowly, dazedly, by his side, neither realising that they still hadn't seen the tower that they'd walked all this way for. It was too much to take in. 

In the passageway outside Gryffindor Tower, the luggage waited a moment longer, exchanging inscrutable looks with Argus Filch. Then it extended its many legs and padded along the passageway. 

Filch watched, silently. Then he sagged and leant against the wall. "Poor Mrs Norris," he murmured. "Poor, poor, Mrs Norris." Another little sob passed his lips. Tenderly he picked up the scruffs of fur and the tattered collar and held them close to his chest.

"My sweet…"

Poppy Pomfrey hadn't expected Snape to be in a particularly good mood when she returned from Hagrid's hut. She certainly hadn't expected to find him up, sitting at a table piled high with library books, and murdering dictoquills with a student. 

Her footsteps in the doorway made them both look up. Severus Snape and Hermione Granger were wearing equal looks of guilt and embarrassment when they noticed her. 

"Um, hello, Madame Pomfrey," the girl said carefully, and brushed aside the charred remains of her last quill. Snape made a quick notation on the parchment in front of him.

"Hello." She dumped her bag down on the table and stripped off the dragon-hide gloves she was still wearing. "That's the last time I _ever_ go doing a favour for Hagrid! That critter of his had an ingrown toenail, and he expected me to clip it!"  
  
"Did you?" asked Snape.

"Yes," she muttered. "And look at me!" They both did.

Then, puzzled, Hermione asked "What's wrong?"  
  
"This!" Pomfrey an arm under her nose. "I have been slobbered on, licked, chewed, sat on, shed on, whimpered on, drooled on and just about anything else you can name, by that big coward Hagrid calls a guard dog! When I entered the hut, the thing hid under the bed, would you believe?"  
  
"I guess he knows exactly what to be afraid of," Snape said with a straight face. 

"Certainly seems to have his priorities straight," Hermione agreed, her expression equally blank. "Do you think he might be smarter than we give him credit for?"  
  
Snape nodded thoughtfully. "You know, Miss Granger, I think you might be right."

They both turned to study Madame Pomfrey, who snorted, and said, "Okay, you can leave. You're dismissed, Snape. Now both of you, get out, so I can nurse my lick marks in peace."  
  
"Yes, Madame Pomfrey," they said together. The mediwitch merely shook her head and marched into her office. "Oh, and please clean this mess up, will you?" 

Hermione looked at the table, seeing it properly for the first time. Then she looked at the floor, and at Snape. He smirked. "Don't worry. I'm sure the scorch marks on the furniture aren't permanent."

Between them they collected their notes, books and remaining quills. "My workroom, I think," Snape said thoughtfully. 

Followed by a pile of floating books, courtesy of '_wingardium leviosa'_ and Snape's wand, they walked off together down the passageway. 

****

Author's Notes

Amy Lee – thank you for your comments about the scene at Malfoy's! I wasn't sure how it would come across, but I had to put something like that in. wipes brow, incredibly relieved.

packers*insane*insomniac* - I don't intend to keep anyone too much in suspense about Roie.

Snapesophelia – It's getting more romantic, I promise. But I have to build up to it, or it wouldn't be in character!

S. Arallion – that is an incredible compliment, and I hope that I can live up to it!

Irene – Firstly, I wish that you'd left your email address, so that I could contact you privately. But it interests me that most people who write derogatory comments in their reviews don't usually have the gall to leave their address – or even to log in to ff.net. I have to say that I _am_ inspired by many fanfictions by other authors, and I believe I've even mentioned that somewhere, but I assure you that it most certainly is _not_ my desire to plagiarise anyone else! That said, when there are so many excellent fics out there, it can be a little difficult not to be inspired by some of them. But I repeat, this is not an attempt to 'shamelessly rip-off' (as I believe you so elegantly framed it) any other author; that it could be, I was not aware until you were so kind and thoughtful to point it out for me. Thank you.

To everyone else who reviewed, thank you very much indeed! I'd write more acknowledgements if I had time. 


	6. Understandings, Revelations, and the Lug...

****

Chapter Six: Understandings, Revelations, & the Luggage feels off-colour

The luggage was delighted. It had found the Mistress!  
  
She had with her the tall dark one, who didn't make sudden movements or strange, squawking noises like the other creatures the luggage had encountered since it came to Hogwarts. The Mistress seemed to like him. The luggage thought a moment, then firmly lumped him into the same category as Crookshanks.

"You know, I'm starting to get the feeling that your luggage knows exactly what it's doing," Snape observed thoughfully.

"I know what you mean."   
  
They had encountered the trunk not far from the hospital wing; in evident relief, it had scuttled behind Hermione, where it had stayed, bumping her on the back of the legs every time she stopped.

Argus Filch had come stalking along the corridor not long after the luggage. Curiously, tears were glistening in his usually hard eyes.

"Argus," greeted Snape.

"Severus." Then he noticed Hermione and her follower, and drew himself up in an indignant rage. "It's yours then, is it?"  
  
"I'm sorry?"

"That bloody suitcase! It ate Mrs Norris." His glare was baleful. Both Hermione and Snape stared curiously at the luggage, which once again tried to hide behind its Mistress.

"Oh."  
  
"It left just the poor darling's collar, and some little tufts of her fur. The cruel, cruel monster." 

Hermione looked helplessly at him. "I don't think there's anything I can do, Mr Filch."

He muttered something that made Hermione's skin bristle and the luggage take a step forward from its hiding place. Deliberately, its lid swung open and displayed two rows of polished teeth and a large, mahogany tongue. Mr Filch remembered something he had forgotten to do in the dungeons and hurried off rapidly to do it.

Hermione laughed. "Thank you, luggage, you were wonderful." Closing its lid smugly, it glowed at the praise. If it could, it would be purring, she thought.

"No one can ever try and say that that thing isn't alive," commented Snape. "Of course, in the case of that trunk, one of the set characteristics known as 'life' is faithfulness, and another one is murderous intent."

The luggage held itself proudly. "It's flattered," the Mistress observed. 

The luggage certainly was. No other item in the entire chronicle of travel accessories had quite such a history of mystery and grievous bodily harm. Its progress was always marked by debris, people who got nervous at the sound of hurrying little footsteps, and whole communities who were unusually polite to strangers. It thought 'faithful' and 'murderous' was a very good description of its purpose in life.

"I think your luggage rather enjoys the attention," remarked Snape, as they resumed walking, in the direction of the Great Hall.

"Yes, it probably does it good to get out and meet people," said Hermione.

But not cats, the trunk added silently. It had been feeling distinctly queasy ever since it swallowed the thing the nasty man called "Mrs Norris".

While this was going on, Headmaster Dumbledore settled his guests at the High Table and introduced them to lunch. This was a greatly varied spread, of food of many different types, shapes, sizes and descriptions, and even something of a mottled purple colour that wriggled when you looked at it.

Hagrid ate it with gusto. But then, as he was quick to point out, "There's no finer delicacy than trendleworms if yer can find 'em, and they're very hard ter find. Me Fang found a whole bunch in the Forest, though." Both Susan and Frank looked around for this Fang. Anything such a giant saw fit to term Fang sounded dangerous.

"When can we go home?" Susan murmured. Her husband shrugged, and his expression clearly said that he only wished he knew.

"This place gives me the creeps," he announced in a flat voice. 

Dumbledore watched with no expression. "Really? Are we then all so vile and disgusting?"

  
Frank hesitated. The thought had crossed his mind, only very fast and looking nervously from side to side in case it got knocked over.

"N-no, of course n-not," he stammered. 

"Flamin' liar," muttered Hagrid. "'Ermione's yer flippin' daughter, an' all yer can think about is 'how strange' she is. Yer ought ta be ashamed a yerselves, yer should!"

Dumbledore's eyebrows raised. "_Now_, Hagrid," he said firmly, and the half-giant subsided, falling silent to poke the funny purple things on his plate around a bit. He wasn't all that hungry any more, even if trendleworms _were_ on the menu.

"I know this is a lot for you to take in," Dumbledore said, "but I'm not asking you to wholeheartedly embrace everything to do with magic. Just not to reject it out of hand."  
"We've tried. For six whole years, we've tried."  
"Is one more year so difficult then?"

You don't understand. The two dentists exchanged glances, nodded thoughtfully, turning away from their plates to meet the eyes of Hogwarts' headmaster. 

Hermione's father sighed. "The whole time she's been going here, she's been growing away from us. The little girl we first sent here we lost long ago. She stopped coming home when a stranger arrived with tales of broomsticks, spells, people changing into animals and potions that could do anything from let you walk through flames, re-grow bones or turn you into a canary!"  
  
Hagrid snorted. He couldn't help it.

A smile tugged at the ends of Dumbledore's mouth. 

"It sounds to me as if you enjoy these stories, Mr Granger."  
  
"If they were only stories, I _would_ enjoy them. But the girl who took my little 'Mione's place insists they're real. And this place of yours is even more elaborate than anything she's made up. It's too hard for me to sit here and accept everything I think I'm seeing."  
  
"But surely, you accepted everything your daughter has told you about magic for the entire time she's been a student at Hogwarts. Even if it was just by turning a blind eye, can't you continue to do it for a few more months? It won't even be an entire year before Hermione has graduated. Do you need to split your family up so abruptly?"  
  
"She's not family. Our daughter is gone. That girl you're protecting is a stranger to us." Frank sat back and crossed his arms, looking decisive and determined for the first time since entering a world he didn't – wouldn't – understand. 

"Huh! I don't claim to understand Muggles, but yer all a bunch of cowards, far as I ken see. What makes yer afraid of a little magic? Yer got lots a things in yer world I don't know abut, but that don't make me afraid a' them. What's wrong with yer?"  
  
Hagrid got to his feet and leant across the table. He was a wild man not far from the tales of Jack and the Beanstalk. Hermione's parents starting looking around for the golden-egg laying goose. 

Instead, they found a small figure outlined in the massive doorway. 

Hermione choked back a startled sob.

"Thanks, Hagrid," she said wryly. "It's nice to know that _someone_ still cares about me."

  
"Don' worry, 'Ermione. I'll look after yer." 

"Oh, wonderful." Frank snorted loudly. "The little witch of the west and the big, not-so-friendly giant have teamed up. Not forgetting old Merlin at the table who wants us all to be one big happy family. Where's the rest of the collective? Looks like we're just missing Frankenstein. Where's he? Out getting his bolts polished?"

"_Please_, Dad. Can't we just talk sensibly?" Hermione's tone was conciliatory, placatory. Somehow, she always seemed to be pushed into the role of peacekeeper whenever her parents started to talk about magic. Magic was a red rag to often-bullish natures.

"_'Please, Dad…'"_ he mocked, his face turning an unpleasant shade of red. "If I were your 'Dad', if you were really my daughter and not some goblin or gremlin changeling, we wouldn't be here and we wouldn't be having this conversation. You're no daughter of ours. You're a flaming impossibility."

"Then what are yer doin' 'ere? Yer oughta be leavin'!"

"Now, Hagrid," Dumbledore interjected in a conciliatory tone. "Mr Granger is just a little overwrought. He doesn't mean that." His blue eyes, raking over Mr Granger, suggested denial could be injurious to his health.

Either he was oblivious, or Frank was too worked up to care. "I _do_ mean that!" he yelled. 

The atmosphere in the Hall became frosty.

"I think we've put up with this nonsense far too long! You want her, you've got her! I don't even believe in this whole magic thing. It's stupid. And it's crazy, and no real daughter of mine would want anything to do with it…"

"Maybe I'm not any real daughter of yours, then. Maybe you can just go to hell. Both of you. I don't want to be related to anyone so close-minded, anyway. Goodbye, good riddance, and I hope you find your way out without getting eaten. I'd hate something to get indigestion because of you."  
  
Frank sneered. But Hermione was accompanied by someone who had far greater practice in sneering than the normally mild-mannered dentist, and when he stepped into the light, the other man flinched and made an involuntary move backwards.

"Oh, _do_ continue, Mr Granger," Snape purred silkily. "I was _so_ interested in what you were saying…"

  
"Ummm…"  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that." He walked towards him, radiating menace. Something in the careful considered pace, the way the long, black robes outlined the lean figure, gave Frank a desire to be _very_ cautious indeed.

The dark eyes glinted with an expression usually reserved for Harry Potter. "Stupid, did you say? Crazy? How very…curious."  
  
"I'm warning you!" Desperately, Hermione's father snatched a sharp knife from the table and held it, wavering, in front of him. "I'm armed! And I'm very dangerous! You'd better keep back if you don't want that fancy costume slit in ribbons!"  
  
Snape laughed. The simple coldness of the sound made the dentist's hand shake more. "Frank…" Susan laid a placating hand on his arm, shooting wild glances at the figure that loomed before them like something out of Dracula.

"Not now, Susan," he said, and brought the knife up again. "Are you listening to me?"  
  
"Oh, I'm listening," the wizard assured him. Behind him, the luggage took up a protective position in front of Hermione.

"Then you'll know that I mean what I say. Now begone!"  
  
"Oh, very well." Snape waved a languid hand, holding a wand which seemed to have come from nowhere. "Expelliarmus." The knife slipped from his hand and slithered along the floor to Severus' feet. He stooped to pick it up, keeping his wand pointed at the muggles the whole time.

"Anything else that you wanted to say to me?"  
  
Frank was starting to run out of words. "How…how…what…"

"That's magic, Dad." Hermione. "That's something I learnt to do in first year. It's usually used in duelling, of course-" and a sad tone crept into her voice "-but it's equally as useful when someone insists on doing something silly, like threatening an adult wizard. Do you have any idea of what he could have done to you?"

She laughed, softly. Tears glistened on her face. "Please, I want to you understand what my life is like. I don't want you to do something stupid and get turned into a bouncing ferret. You're still my parents, even if you don't want to acknowledge me." Snape's words from the infirmary floated back to her as she spoke, and she added, "Even if I don't understand you, I still love you."

Dad regarded her with a mixture of finality and sadness. "You're a stranger now, 'Mione," he said. The old nickname sounded strange, all of a sudden, coming out of his mouth. 

"I don't know who you are. And it frightens me. And your mother. This place is the opposite of everything we've ever learnt. It shouldn't exist." He breathed in, heavily. "The people who live here shouldn't exist. Like old Gandalf over there, and Fi-fi-fo-fum, and Dracula! I don't want any part of this. If you're our daughter, then you'll come back with us today."  
  
Hermione stared at him in anguish. "You know I can't do that, Dad," she said.

"Then don't. Don't ever come back."  
  
She nodded. "Okay, I won't. Goodbye."

  
Swallowing the bile in her mouth, Hermione fled the room. 

"Excuse me." Nodding to Dumbledore, Snape tossed the forgotten knife onto the table – narrowly missing Frank – and followed her. The luggage stayed long enough to snap its lid threateningly at the Grangers, before it too stalked indignantly out of the Hall.

"Even that hook-nosed, greasy git cares more about 'Ermione than yeh seem ter, yer cold-hearted goblins," Hagrid spat out angrily. 

He got up. "Don' think I'm very 'ungry now, either, 'Eadmaster." 

The doors slammed shut behind him and vibrated in their frame. Dumbledore asked quietly, "Are you sure about this?"  
  
"Yes." They shared a glance that seemed to stiffen both their spines, without the help of the Skel-e-grow that Snape had felt like putting in their coffee. "If this is what she wants, then she's welcome to it, but we don't have to be a part of it."  
  
"You _do_ realise that you're making your daughter choose between her family and her friends? Between you and a way of life she loves?"  
  
Another glance. This time Susan shifted on her feet. But "I think she made that choice a long time ago, Professor," was all she said.

Snape caught up with Hermione when she reached her room. The door swung violently on its hinges when she wrenched it upon, and ignoring the mirror's greeting, flung herself furiously on the bed.

And started to shake.

"Miss Granger?" Hermione frowned into her pillow as Snape came around the room to sit on the bed beside her. Seizing her shoulder, he gently pulled her face around to look at him. "Your parents don't deserve you," he said quietly. "You can't change them; they shouldn't have tried to change you. But it's over now. Let yourself grieve. Let it out. Don't keep it inside where it can scar you. That's giving their rejection power that it doesn't warrant. It _can_ be a good thing. If you understand it, learn from it, it's possible to come out of such an experience, not unchanged, but changed for the better. Though heaven knows it's hard."

  
She sat up and took him by the arms, meaning to move him, but for some reason her hands tightened till that grip was the only thing holding her up. It was only then that she realised she was crying, sobbing into his robes like a child. What must he think of her? She opened her mouth to tell him she was alright, to apologise for breaking down, but what came out was, "But I _don't_ understand! I don't-" She gritted her teeth to shut herself off.

"I know," he murmured, stroking her hair gently. "I know."  
  
She wanted to stop, but the more he held her and whispered understanding, the more she wept, as though his hands soft on her head were smoothing the tears out of her. 

Dumbledore saw the girl's parents to their home before going in search of her himself. 

When he reached the dungeons, he found the luggage sitting firmly outside the room he had assigned to Hermione. "May I go in?" he asked it. 

The luggage said no. It did this by backing up against the door until the only way to enter the room would be to go through it…and going through something displaying two rows of vicious teeth in its inside didn't seem like a very viable option to the Headmaster.

"Well, I guess you know best," he said, and summoned himself a chair so that he could sit down beside it. Now assured that he wasn't going to try and enter the room, the luggage relaxed.

But it didn't move from its position in front of the door. Not that Dumbledore expected it to.

Together, they waited.

__

The girl spins wildly on the spot. "Catch me Daddy, catch me!" 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ice cream sticky hands reach up and clasp around her waist. Laughter. Little brown eyes stare into laughing big ones. "Push me on the swings, Daddy!"

"Anything, Angel."

Now she's standing in line at a department store, clinging tightly to Mummy's hand. They are waiting to buy the frilly gold party dress for her birthday party. It is her first party ever.

In nine days, two hours and forty-six minutes, she will be five years old. 

Crowds push in, she stumbles. Mummy wraps an arm around her and hugs her close. The little girl buries her head in Mummy's jumper. Sniffles. "Mummy, my feet hurt."  
  
"It won't be long, now love. Just be patient."  
  
"Don't wanna be patient!"

Mummy's face tightens. "Behave."  
  
Daddy's glaring, too, behind his glasses. The girl is puzzled. Where did Daddy come from? And why are they out on the pier? The pier is in South London, on the Thames, and she was supposed to be out shopping. 

But no. There's a fishing rod in her hands, and she's dressed much the same as Daddy, in slacks and heavy jumper to brave the morning cold. 

Daddy's not happy. She knows she can't catch fish, but he shouldn't be glaring at her like that.

"What is it, Dad?"  
  
"If I were your 'Dad', if you were really my daughter and not some goblin or gremlin changeling, we wouldn't be here and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"What?"  
  
"You're no daughter of ours."  
  
The girl doesn't understand. She stares, frantically, at him. But he turns away, won't look at her, packing up his rod and walking off, leaving her there.

"Dad, wait!"

"You're a stranger now, 'Mione."

He's gone. She searches the pier desperately. "Dad…"

How? Where? Why? 

Losing her footing, she flounders into the murky water, and falls out through into her living room.

Mum's doing the crossword in the Times, across from a welcoming, roaring fire. She tries to warm herself, but it gives off no heat.

"Mum, what's wrong with the fire?"  
  
Mum ignores her, keeps puzzling over the paper.

  
"Mum!"

Mum puts down her pencil, and turns to face her, expression unusually grave.

"It's you again, is it? What do you want?"  
  
The girl blinks confusedly. "I live here." 

"No, you don't. You chose to leave us. You've made your choice, 'Mione, and now you'll just have to learnt to live with it, and whatever it happens to mean. By yourself, as you seem to want."  
  
"I've done something?" What, whatever could she mean? The girl is too young to understand.

"You might not know now, but you will. This is it, Hermione. This is goodbye, because our paths are too different to converge any longer. So long, love. Farewell…and good luck."  
  
"Mum?" Pleading, crying. Wiping ten-year-old eyes with chubby ten-year-old fingers. 

"Sorry, love. I'm so very sorry."  
  
Mum brushes the tears from the girl's eyes, and straightens her clothes impassively. The girl looks down and finds she's wearing some kind of fancy costume.

"Mum, what is this?"

Sad smile. "What you've chosen, darling. And I can't say I don't wish it were otherwise, but you've plenty of people to take care of you there, and I know there's no other road you can take. Best be off now, then." She steps back and raises one hand in farewell. But the girl doesn't want to go.

"Please, can you explain, Mum? What's going on? What IS this? And what are you talking about?"

"You'll find out soon enough, love. And you already know, really, only you're choosing not to admit it at the moment. I daresay you want to be a child a little longer."  
  
"I'm not a child!" The angry declaration snaps quickly out from between her lips. Hands land firmly on her hips. Chins rises, defiantly. "I'm nearly eleven. I'm not a little girl any more!"

"No, of course you're not." Mum checks her watch absently. "He'll be here any moment now. Are you ready?"  
  
Ready? Ready for what?

"Mum?"

"Okay, it's time now. Remember everything you've learnt, and remember, just because you don't see certain people any more, it's not because they don't care about you, or because you shouldn't care for them, just that some people need a little longer to adjust to things that can't be helped. Eventually you'll sort it out between you."  
  
"Mum, are you talking about Grandad?" Grandad had died two years ago and was the only person the little girl didn't see any more that she could think of.

Mum shakes her head sadly. "No, dear. Come on then, he'll be impatient if you don't turn up." She leads her to the door which vanishes at her touch, and down along the cobbled driveway. A dark figure stands at the gate, cloaked in ebony robes and seemingly unaffected by the wind that buffets the girl's every step.

Mum stops just inside the gate. "Go on love, this is your show now."  
  
"Come with me, Mum, please. I'm frightened."  
  
"Sorry…"  
  
Just a whisper and she is gone.

"Well? Are you coming?" The dark figure turns unreadable eyes to her, and she quails under their forthright gaze.

But she takes the last step forward, and puts her little hand into his outstretched one.

The wind disappears.

And Hermione wakes, hair plastered to her scalp by sweat, staring around her with wild, unseeing eyes.

Snape stayed with the girl until she fell into an unsteady, uneven exhausted sleep. Then he went to the door, where he found not surprised, Dumbledore asleep in a light wicker chair, the luggage by his feet.

The old wizard opened his eyes immediately came the sound of the other's footsteps. Not such a heavy sleep, then. If he really had been asleep.

"How is she, Severus?"  
  
"Asleep."  
  
"The poor child."  
  
There was silence for a moment while Snape considered all the things he could say, that warred with his tongue for attention. To keep any of them coming out, he bit down on it fiercely.

"She will come to terms with it."  
  
"As you did, Severus?" A raised eyebrow. "Turning away from the world might lessen the sting of rejection a little, but it brings with it worse pains, like loneliness and envy and an endless stream of might-have-beens."

Snape's face shuttered closed. "Keep your oratory to yourself, old man. I have no need of it, and Miss Granger is asleep. Perhaps when she wakes she will appreciate your wisdom. Until then, good day."  
  
With distant eyes and cat-light footfalls, he strode off along the corridor. Dumbledore watched him go with a sad look of his own. As he'd feared, then. The similarity of Miss Granger's experience to Severus' own had reopened all the old wounds he had kept buried for twenty-two years. 

Sighing, the Headmaster leant down a hand to rub lightly the luggage's lid. "At least we've never had those problems, have we, old friend?" he murmured, and the luggage, quiescent for once, purred softly in agreement. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

****

Disclaimers & Author's Notes:  
  
All characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. Though I am borrowing them, all I get out of it is fun. The luggage belongs to Terry Pratchett's Discowrld series; I'm not quite sure what Rincewind's going to do now Hermione's got Luggage, but I'm perfectly happy to buy him a hold-all, if he likes!

Some of the description of the luggage's characteristics comes in part from Pratchett's _The Discworld Companion_, and _The Light Fantastic_. I have to correct my earlier statement that the luggage first appeared in the latter novel, since in rereading _The Colour of Magic_, the very first Discworld novel, I found it features quite predominantly.

Similarly, I have 'borrowed' part of the scene where Snape comforts 'Mione in the dungeon; about a paragraph of this is scabbed, with alterations, from one book in Robert Jordan's _Wheel of Time_ series.

Apologies to everyone for the lateness in posting; I've made this a little longer to compensate. But I have just moved out of home in order to go to uni, and the last few weeks I haven't had internet access (due to my home access being cut off and not being able to get down to the uni computer labs), nor the time to write anything!

Andolyn – I'm very happy to get such an enthusiastic review from you! I've been reading your "Muggle" story with great interest and it just keeps getting better and better.

Jade – once again, your comments make me feel all warm and happy and buttery inside, sort of like Dumbledore when he's just had hot chocolate and buttered toast. But seriously, I absolutely *love* your reviews. They give me inspiration and encouragement to write!

Amy Lee - Don't worry, I have an idea that will make Filch feel a lot happier about the luggage and Mrs Norris! I think I've answered your questions about 'Mione's parents, her and Snape, though…

Annabella – I suppose everyone needs a little luggage in their life… grin Oh well. Even if Pratchett created it, _I've_ brought it to the Potterverse, and I'm glad so many people like it. But I am totally in awe of Pratchett's genius.

PotionsMastersMistress – Hedwig is safe. I promise.

Starlight, PotionsMastersMistress, Annabella & everyone else who commented about the PtQ thing – Your comments have made me feel a lot better! I've corresponded with Irene; she _has_ raised some interesting points, but all coincidental. And very much to do with D.E. = Bad Things; wouldn't it be interesting now to see them selling candy floss at a carnival? And Voldie can operate the merry-go-round, just to prove what a little sweetie he is. J 

Deborah – I've always thought that even if Snape _was_ hellbent on being nasty, he had to have a good reason for it. And J.K. isn't very forthcoming with her hints & reasons. I have a nasty suspicion that we'll have to wait till the end of book 7 for the whole story on his past. So I decided to fill the gaps a little…

kjsparkles – thank you for that. I'll certainly keep your request in mind; it's very reasonable and a very, very, good point. I'm not quite sure how they will eventually end up together, but it will be a long ride. It has to be, to be feasible!! 

Strega Brava – Maybe they make indigestion tablets for suitcases. I'm not sure. I'll have to look into it.


	7. Slytherin and Solidago

**Chapter Seven: Slytherin and Solidago**

_There were exactly four paces between the two furthest walls.  In one corner, a threadbare blanket lay; as far away as possible, sat a small table with impossibly large library books and a pile of scrawled upon and ink-stained parchment._

_The quill lay on the floor._

_Severus Snape regarded the ink on the boards with controlled regret.  He'd long ago given up on dismay, horror and shock.  The greater the reaction he showed, the greater reaction he received in return.  It was all a case of Newton's law, he observed idly.  "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction," he quoted, quietly amused.  And it was certainly true, wasn't it?  The more he did, the more he got belted.  Fingers with a will of their own played across the fresh welts on his lower back._

_He hadn't been quick enough with the right answer, that time.  And that was what he was supposed to be doing now: studying the tomes dumped upon him, with a view for memorising every thing they contained.  No matter that he was only a third year, and they far beyond the grasp of a clever seventh; any failure was seen as deliberate disobedience, and earned a beating without any other provocation needed.  _

_But that worked the opposite way, too.  Since he'd get hit whatever he did, what was the point of trying to stop it?  His meagre efforts were never good enough.  _

_Slowly, silently, he slid down to a sitting position against the wall and waited._

That was long ago.  Not long enough.  The man pushed the irritating little memories to the back of his mind, where they belonged, and opened the heavy potions book on the desk before him.  It was a familiar friend, now.  Not like the first time he'd seen it…

_"Stupid creature!  Can't you understand anything__?  Or are you just a squib?"  
  
"I'm not a squib."  The young Severus forced his voice to remain calm.  It was still an effort, but then, he was still a year or two away from going to Howarts, depending on how early his father decided to let him go._

_"Prove it."  The leather covered book shot across the room and slapped him in the chest.  "Make the Draught of All-Healing."  
  
"The what?"  That wasn't the right answer.  But sometimes his tongue betrayed him._

_"So you question what I say, hmmm?"  The soft, mocking laugh that calculated to set a child's nerves aflame filtered through the room.  _

_"No, sir."  
  
"Really?"  Almost a gentle purr, but much crueler.  Harder.  Colder.  Much more familiar._

_The tall shadow detached itself from the desk and came to hover over him.  Slender fingers caressed his chin, tilted his face so that pale eyes could peruse the child's frightened features.  _

_"No, don't answer me."  The fingers trailed over the boy's mouth, stopping any words he had intended to blurt out.    
  
"Useless, stupid boy.  Squib.  A little demented goblin, aren't you?"  
  
"Y-yes…"_

_"Yes, that's right.  Good boy.  Say it: I'm a stupid, demented goblin!"  
  
The sullen lips twitched as his father's hand moved up to his hairline, entwining its fingers in the too-long unwashed hair.  _

_"I'm a stupid, demented goblin."  
  
"Good__ boy…"  
  
"It's obvious who I take after.  Not Mother." No, she was part-Harpy, the boy's mind finished.  
  
Cruel lips clamped tightly over malformed, yellow teeth, stretching into a ghastly, skeletal smile. _

_"Oh, you will pay…" the mouth hissed, eyes lighting with a sudden, nasty delight.    
  
"Dear__ boy."  
  
That was the last thing he remembered for several days, and it was the last time he deliberately antagonised his father._

Snape shook his head.  Just read the damn book.  This was what he got for being altruistic, was it?  Chased by stupid memories he thought he'd lost a lifetime ago.  Because it _was a lifetime ago that he'd lived them.  He wasn't that person any more._

No, a little voice tickled, you've grown past that, haven't you?  You've become the monster.  Not that you ever had any doubt you would.

"Oh, _shut up," he told it, and forced himself to keep flicking through the book.  If he remembered correctly, there was something here that would stabilise the Muggle-born girl's mental state, and allow her to face her problems without getting mired down in them.  It was a potion he rarely brewed, since Slytherins preferred to come to terms with things without drugs, and Madame Pomfrey didn't approve of something that could so greatly alter someone's perceptions.  _

But Pomfrey wouldn't know about the Elixir of Solidago until the girl had drunk it, after he'd physically poured it down her neck if necessary.  Snape had a nagging suspicion that this situation was exactly why the Headmaster had requested the Gryffindor girl spend her holidays here, with _him, in his domain; he knew all too well the feelings she would be sorting through – they were minor compared to some that he still carried around – and by placing her here, Dumbledore was giving him tacit permission to deal with them, and help her deal with them, as he saw fit.  Not that he liked the idea of playing nursemaid to a Gryffindor…_

She'd actually been almost pleasant when they'd been working on her present pet project though, he remembered, and he almost smiled.  He found some of her ideas a little far-fetched, but it was a pleasure to see a student so involved in an academic puzzle of their own devising, that they were interested in because they wanted to be, not because of schoolwork or some misplaced beliefs.  Like that House Elf incident.  How well he remembered the most-infamous of Granger's campaigns!  He far preferred her with a text-book spread across her knees and a notebook in her hand, _researching something, creating contentions and substantiating them with scientific argument, than twitching in her seat in class, hand waving madly in the air to give an answer that held no meaning for most of her companions, or spouting self-righteous nonsense about politics she barely understood.  But then, subtlety was hardly her strong suit, was it?  She was a Gryffindor, after all.  _

That just about summed up everything he thought about Miss Granger.  Every time he looked at her, he saw Gryffindor, and Gryffindor, in the eyes of the Head of Slytherin, meant trouble.  Useless, inflated opinions of themselves; courage that landed them in hot water regularly; egos that never knew when to stop.  

Still, she _was a lot more mature than most of her classmates.  He could never consider her a Slytherin, not while she still made so many silly, thoughtless comments, and rushed in where even Hufflepuffs were afraid to go – then again, Hufflepuffs were afraid of lots of things – but this experience might temper her character a little, so she ended up a lot less Gryffindor, a lot more self-assured and confident in her opinion of herself, less dependent and reliant on the thoughts and affections of others.  With more deviousness, less see-through, blustery courage._

With a start, Snape realised he was starting to see Miss Granger's misfortune as an opportunity to turn her into a Slytherin.  Without any chance of interference from the Potter and the Weasel.  

She could become great, you know, his mental voice nagged at him.  She could be a real credit…to Gryffindor, he squashed it firmly.  No matter how this event changes her, or how much influence I have on the development of her character – away from messy Muggle entanglements, or noble Gryffindor interference - the ultimate result still won't help Slytherin.

Then again, perhaps he could stand seeing that if it meant one less foolish soul stupidly throwing away their potential.  And she would no doubt make great contributions to the magical community, which all houses, even Gryffindor, served.  She had talent.  She had the potential.  Perhaps, with the right catalyst, the annoying little Gryffindor brat could become a force to be reckoned with, and not just a member of Potter's little clique or the object of the Weasel's lusts.  Any effort on his part would no doubt antagonise both of those irritating, hormone saturated boys, as the bushy haired prat evolved beyond their ability to comprehend.

She would never make a Slytherin, but perhaps, with the right influences – the situation was already perfect – she could become more than just another Gryffindor.    
  
And perhaps his holidays wouldn't be as ruined as he'd thought, with a pet project of his own, one that would have the added side-effect of annoying Harry Potter.

His lips curled as he stared down at the vellum, barely seeing the flowing script before him.

"The Elixir of Solidago.  Right, then."

Hermione floundered in the empty queasiness between sleep and waking.  Something kept trying to drag her down, keep her where she felt safe, but something else kept insisting her to wake, to break away from the haven that suddenly felt suffocating. 

The room came into focus around her, and Dumbledore became visible at the foot of her bed.  "Good morning, Miss Granger," he said softly.

"Good morning," Hermione muttered, trying, for a reason she couldn't quite identify, not to meet his eyes.  It didn't seem right to look at him when she'd been the cause of so much trouble, when _her relatives had insulted the man she privately felt had to be far greater than Merlin had ever been._

Opposite to Harry, Hermione felt herself permanently in awe of the kindly Headmaster.  Unlike someone like Snape, whom she could take with equanimity, even when one moment he was snarling obscenities at her and making her tremble, and the next he was complimenting her on her research.  She had a vague memory of him holding her when she cried, after fleeing the Great Hall.  Somehow, his touch had given her comfort, and let her find some measure of rest.  And when she'd been frightened in her sleep, it was Snape, or someone who looked a lot like him, who'd led her out of her confusion.    
  
Hermione couldn't pin down why.  Maybe it was the air of having been there himself?  But she couldn't picture Snape ever throwing himself down on his bed for a good howl, so the thought was stupid.  It had to be just that he was always so controlled that her nightmares took one look at him and fled.  She giggled.  Snape, the mighty hero, rescuing terrified maidens from the fiery clutches of their nightmares!  It didn't really fit.  But, oh, the thought of him in a suit of armour, glaring furiously through the visor…

So she was hysterical.  She didn't care.

Dumbledore raised one curious brow.  "How are you feeling, Miss Granger?"  
  
There were a multitude of meanings in his simple words.  Hermione was having too difficult a time fighting off an image of a noble Snape saving the lovely maiden to answer.

He'd be better cast as the dragon!  She thought wildly.  Then, unbidden, came the image of Norbert with Snape's head, and set her off again.  Sometimes he pulled such faces – like when he'd told her off in the hospital wing – that she wouldn't be surprised if he started breathing fire…  

"Miss Granger, are you allright?"  Dumbledore's words were more urgent now.  She stared wildly at him.  Snape-the-dragon breathed fire at her parents, tied to the rock that the noble maiden had just vacated.  They screamed but sizzled furiously.  The maiden clapped her hands and laughed.  Then Snape-the-dragon bowed stiffly to her and stalked away on thick, leathery legs before taking to the air.

"Miss Granger?"  Dumbledore stood up, studying her a minute longer, before leaving the small room in a flurry of robes, his footsteps sounding rapidly on the cobblestones outside.

Hermione didn't notice.  Much better just to lay here, she thought.  Not thinking that it really was all over now, and her parents might well have sizzled on that rock, because their relationship had managed to sizzle out, good and proper, somewhere along the line.  Somewhere, somehow, the line had bee drawn, and when she'd crossed it all-unknowing, that was it; farewell, Angelina, for the carnival truly was over.

"'How it breaks my heart to leave you…"  Half whisper, half singing.  Then she laughed.  It certainly hadn't, had it?  Mum and Dad had been so glad to see her go.  The way Dad had been talking, she almost could have thought he'd been possessed.

"…but I will love you, till I die."  Maybe she would.  Maybe she'd be able to forgive, some time, and just move on without it hurting any more.  

She _would move on, she vowed silently.  She'd get over it, and she'd be able to look at a picture of her parents without a flicker of feeling.  They wouldn't mean a thing to her.  As strangers they would part, if a stranger they would have her be.  So be it, then.  _

And her indifference would be because _she no longer cared, not because she buried all her sorrows in a bottle of Jack Daniels' finest.  She knew her mother pretended not to see, but the young Hermione had been given 5 pounds quite regularly not to tell Mummy about the funny bottles in Daddy's desk, well before she'd ever heard of Hogwarts.  In the holidays since her first year, she'd noticed it get worse, every time; more bottles, more mood swings, more sullen silences or strange outbursts.  And every time, her mother sided with her father, acting as if his behaviour was normal, as if she didn't smell the alcohol on his breath.  At first Hermione had thought it had been some problem with work, but it had been only recently that she'd realised it had nothing to do with dentistry, and everything to do with her.  Daddy thought he'd lost his little girl to witchcraft, and dived into the bottle, thereby __truly losing her to witchcraft, when she had nowhere else to go.  And Mummy, she was trapped in the middle._

All Hermione's grand resolutions slipped away in another batch of tears. 

"Miss Granger," she heard faintly, and noted only absently that it wasn't Dumbledore who was talking.  It was Snape.  Snape-the-dragon! She thought instantly.  But no, he wouldn't fit into this little room.  So it had to be Snape-the-human, which, she thought, was a scary enough prospect on his own.

"She's hysterical, a natural side-effect I think, Severus.  The poor child just needs a lot of love and care to show her she's not really alone."  That was Dumbledore.  

"If you would be so kind as to allow me to make my own diagnosis, Headmaster?"  And _that was pure Snape.  Dimly she realised she was grateful for his presence; she didn't think she could take any more of Dumbledore's well-meaning sympathy.  She just wanted to be alone.  _

"Miss Granger?"  Thoughtful, more than sympathetic.  

"If you don't calm yourself in five minutes, you foolish girl, I will burn all of your notes regarding your little 'holiday project', and you can expect no further help from me on the matter!"  
  
Hermione's academic instincts took over.  "Professor!  You can't do that!"

Snape smirked.  "Oh, really?" he chuckled.

She nodded emphatically.  "We were so close to finding something that would actually correlate between the two applications!  I'm sure that it only needs a little more work to find a working model."  
  
"I concur," he said shortly.  

She blinked.  This was unexpected.  

The Potions Master turned to the Headmaster, and there was a small smile playing across his lips, mirrored in his charcoal eyes.  

"You will observe, Albus, that the subject is no longer hysterical, and would doubtless benefit from the company of her notebook more than a warm and loving hug."  He turned the last word into a sneer, but Dumbledore only smiled and shook his head.  "Perhaps that's best, then," he said.  "Especially if _you're the one prescribing treatment."    
  
Snape shot him a hurried glare, but the Headmaster's face was placid and inscrutable as he murmured a quiet "The dragon won't eat you," to Hermione, earning himself another startled look, before sweeping calmly out of the room._

Snape got up to close the door, first stepping back to allow the luggage entrance.  "You have a visitor," he said dryly.

It pussy-footed up to the bed, when it lurked just out of trailing doona range, observing Hermione curiously.  She found herself smiling as she looked down at the obviously concerned suitcase.

"Hello, you," she said.  It twitched its lid in reply.

"Missed me?" 

Twitch, twitch.

"Feeling better after that silly old cat made you feel sick?"

Twitch.  Hopping from foot to foot.

"That's good."  Hermione reached out and stroked its lid, running her fingers along the metal bands.  "I'm glad you're here."  
  
If the luggage had eyes, it would have rolled them.  Not be with the Mistress when she was in distress?  What kind of suitcase did she think it was?  
  
Its reverie was broken by a sharp "Miaow!" and the sound of Snape's voice observing "You seem to be popular today, Miss Granger," as Crookshanks jumped over the trunk to land on the bed beside Hermione.  With her other hand, she ruffled his fur.  

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" she answered Snape.  Then, because she couldn't resist the spirit of mischief that filled her with the continued thought of Snape-as-Dragon, she added, "After all, you're here, and you're not exactly the president of my fan club.  It must be my lucky day to get such a charming visit."  
  
Granger, one.  Snape, still forthcoming, she thought.  He was either going to laugh, or about to say something really mean.  

But he surprised her by merely commenting "I have prepared a potion that ought to help you…adjust to your new situation, and thought only to bring it to you myself, instead of trusting it to a trunk and a tabby cat.  Pray, forgive my thoughtfulness, Miss Granger."  
  
"What kind of potion?"  
  
"The Elixir of Solidago."  And he waited, to see what kind of response she would give.

Hermione's brow furrowed in thought.  "Isn't that some kind of mood alterer?" she asked finally.

Snape pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the bed from the luggage.  "Not…exactly," he said.  "It's partly a palliative, true, designed to calm and fortify the nerves, but it also has the effect of leaving the drinker in a state of objectivity to be able to carefully review anything they need to.  It's used mainly in periods of great emotional and mental stress, but I have heard of some students drinking it before particularly difficult exams, in order to maximise the amount of information they can take in.  That's not a recommendation, mind you.  The Elixir does induce a slight 'drug-happy' state, so that emotional problems can be dealt with without excess pain, so drinking it without such problems can lead to a person being so happy they forget to take the exam they've studied so hard for. All in all, a fair deal, in my eyes."  
  
He was smiling thinly, so Hermione hazarded "Use it to cheat, suffer the consequences?"

He nodded.  "Exactly, Miss Granger."  
  
"But…I thought…I mean, don't Slytherins…"  
  
"Smile on cheating, not frown upon it?  We appreciate deviousness, Miss Granger.  We approve of anything that achieves results while minimising the required effort.  We don't, however, agree with being caught.  Am I making myself clear?"  
  
Hermione thought her way through that one.  "You don't like using Solidago to cheat because its effects are noticeable?  Would you approve of something that gave the same result, only wasn't detectable?"  
  
"In that case, Miss Granger, I wouldn't know about it to _disapprove, would I?"  But his eyes glinted amusedly._

"I will never understand the way a Slytherin's mind works.  Never."  
  
"I wouldn't make rash promises if I were you, Miss Granger.  Drink."

A potion changed hands and a pair of dark, glittering eyes danced with rapid thoughts and plans.  

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Author's Notes & Disclaimers:  
  
Thank you to everyone who reviewed!  **

Kat097 – wow, thanks!

strega brava – the luggage is resilient.

Dorothy – I love that idea!  They'd beat Voldie with no trouble!

tyger-chan…that would be one interesting masquerade!

Ariana Deralte – I was thinking along similar lines.  Though it makes a good plot device, it _is_ a little weird for a parent to want to cut their child from their lives; obviously, there has to be some underlying problem, not necessarily caused by the child, that's aggravated by them.

A Vulgarweed – there is a reason she's been placed there.  Dumbledore has a reason for everything he does!  

Dru – what a compliment.  That is absolutely incredible and I am duly humble.

Cissy – that would be hilarious!  I'd love to do something along those lines, but I don't think it would fit in this story.  Maybe I might have to start another one!  Your idea's brilliant.

The disclaimer is the same as previous chapter's since I'm too lazy to update it.

While there isn't any actual Elixir of Solidago that I know of, the potential to create on _does exist.  The herb solidago, otherwise known as Golden Rod or Aaron's Rod, has a very favourable effect on human emotions; it treats the kidneys, which are most affected after an emotional shock, since interestingly enough, all our emotions are worked off through the kidneys.  According to Maria Treben, the well-known herbalist, in __Health Through God's Pharmacy, _

"Golden Rod…should therefore be drunk without delay in cases of disappointments and emotional stress.  We feel the soothing effect of this plant almost like a calming and caressing hand; even the sight of the golden rod in nature has a quieting effect on us."

The herb itself has a quieting, palliative effect, calming the subject's emotions and stabilising their mental state, thus making it easier for them to reasonably come to terms with their problems, or so I've found.  The "drug-happy" state induced by my fictional Elixir of Solidago would have to be induced by some other substance in the potion aimed at 'unruffling' the drinker's mental feathers.  I was thinking along the lines of cannabis, since that alters the consumer's perceptions like few other substances, and this would explain why neither Pomfrey or Snape would condone the Elixir's use under regular circumstances.  In prescribing it to Hermione, Snape is a bit fearful of an emotionally wrought, perhaps suicidal Gryffindor alone at Hogwarts without her friends to talk her out of doing anything stupid.  So not having much respect for the average Gryffindor's ability to sort through their problems without help, he comes up with something that will get rid of the depression by putting her in an unusually calm and receptive state to come to terms with things. 


	8. Coffee and Conversation

**Chapter Eight: Coffee and Conversation**

Ever since drinking the Elixir of Solidago, Hermione had felt her perspective on the world to be a little skewed.  It no longer seemed strange to be spending the holidays at school, in the company of one of her worst enemies.  Her research was proceeding satisfactorily, and the brief notes she got from Harry and Ron assured her they were having a wonderful time.  She didn't bother to tell them what had happened.  Whenever she put quill to parchment and thought about it, the words dried up in her skull and it seemed a silly idea.

But queerest of all, was that every time she thought about her parents, she felt nothing.  The whole thing seemed distant, as though it hadn't happened to her at all, but to another girl she just happened to share a body with, who had all the emotional attachments and bore all the associated grief.  Hermione actually felt rather cheerful.  Snape wasn't even too difficult to get along with.  Conversations with him tended to make the most peculiar leaps and twists, so that an hour or two after they'd started, she wasn't sure what they'd begun talking about, or how they'd arrived where they were.  

Sometimes they'd talk about her parents.  Even though it didn't hurt anymore, Snape seemed determined to dredge up every little thing associated with her family, digging even into matters she'd long considered intimate.  And she talked.  She didn't know why.  But she told him everything she could remember.  And he listened.  Snape was excellent at listening.  He would sit, incredibly still, opposite or beside her, but always with a good space between them, and hear the details of her life as though they were all he'd ever wanted to know.  Sometimes he'd have a coffee mug, and would sip the mixture slowly, absently, as she talked.  It was a peaceful ritual.

"When I was three, I made mud pies in the backyard with Dad and we decorated them with holly leaves.  Mum took one look at us and made us wash the mud off under the garden hose before we were allowed inside!"

Snape nodded slowly, stirring his coffee with a soft clink of spoon against china, the distinctiveness of his features lost in the warm shadows of the room.  Perhaps he'd planned it that made, meant all along to be the faceless, nameless, Father-confessor figure, no more the feared and distrusted professor.  He could have been anyone, wrapped in the confining robes of darkening shadows, almost hidden in the comforting gloom that let her words spill so freely.

Yet as a child, Hermione had never been comfortable in the confessional at church.  The few times her parents had made her go, she'd made things up rather than tell the quiet, faceless voice behind the grill her shames and dreams.  Somehow the idea of talking to someone she could put a face and name to, however despised, was far more welcoming than confessing to a stranger.  And Snape was far from despised.  Perhaps it was the conversation itself, or the times they spent working, researching and experimenting for the sheer academic pleasure of doing so, but he had started to take on a sheen in her mind that was nowhere near hated, distrusted, nasty Slytherin professor.  It didn't bear too much thinking about.  Unlike her family, the figure Snape was seeming to become was something she couldn't put a thought to, just something she enjoyed, the simple comfort of his presence.  The presence of someone she could talk to.  It was so easy, just to talk, to be swept away on a torrent of words. He would always listen.  

Couldn't she do the same for him?  
  
It seemed so simple.

Hermione's lips curved into a slight smile, sure in the knowledge he could make out her features enough to see it. 

"How did you spend your childhood, Professor?"  
  
He sighed, so softly she nearly missed it.  "You don't need to know, Miss Granger."  
  
"But I want to.  You didn't _need to know everything about me, but you seem to.  Somehow I've just kept talking, and talking, and told you every silly thing I can remember.  I've never talked so much about myself before."  
  
"You needed to," his voice said quietly from the shadows.  "Tell me, how do you feel about your family now?"  
  
Hermione paused a moment to consider. "Okay, I guess."  The thought surprised her.  "That would be the effect of the elixir, I suppose?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"That amount of solidago only lasts for a few hours, Hermione.  Enough to start you purging your demons.  If I'd thought you needed another dose, I would have given it to you, but you've managed to fight your battles all by yourself."  She could hear a sad smile in his words._

_I'm proud of you, it could have said, a confirmation of an unassuming confidence in her character that gave Hermione a warm glow.  Like firelight, only the hearth was empty in this, the middle of summer.  _

Yet why so sad?  
  
Quietly, she said "I really would like to hear about your childhood.  I've told you so much about myself that I need to hear something in exchange.  Please?"  
  
He was silent for so long that Hermione almost feared he'd managed to spirit himself away, leaving her talking to an empty chair and the ghosts of her imagination.

"I don't know where to start."  Wryly, that, as if he were giving in and knew it.

"Begin at the middle," Hermione said. 

He started, surprised.  "I thought you'd want me to start at the beginning.  That's the usual response, isn't it?"  
  
"Well, let's be unusual," she replied, a grin nagging at her lips.  "I've always thought the middle is the best place to begin because you're not so far away from either the beginning or ending."  
  


"Perhaps you're right.  Perhaps, you might be right…" he mused, voice trailing away into the depths of his cup.  

Hermione sighed loudly, drawing his attention.  "Don't try and distract me, _Professor, I said I want to hear everything and I meant it.  Now, go on."  She sat back expectantly, smoothing her emerald robes over her knees._

Snape stared past her into the patterns of the stonework.  "I begged the Sorting Hat to put me in Slytherin."  
  
She nodded silently, as he had.  After a while she realised he seemed to be expecting her to comment.  As she opened her mouth to reply, Snape continued.

"It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw.  It said I had the mind of an academic, to study for anything other than love for it would be a corruption of what I was capable of.  It said politics were beneath me. If I became a Ravenclaw I would become the best person I was capable of being.  I said, please put me in Slytherin.  Please.

"And it did.  In the end, the hat won't put you somewhere you won't fit in."  
  
"You fitted in?"  So, maybe she wasn't as good a listener as Snape.

He nodded.  "To my sorrow and relief."  
  
"What-"

"Please, Miss Granger, let me tell it my own way.  If you would hear, please _listen."  
Chastened, she whispered "Sorry, Professor," and moved by an impulse she couldn't define, added "I didn't mean to distract you.  If I talk, just ignore me."  
"That would be a little hard to do, Miss Granger."  
"Wha- oh, sorry, Professor."  
  
He chuckled slightly.  "Okay, where was I?"  
She was silent.  He smirked at her sideways.  "It's alright, you can talk.  That was a question, not a statement."  
  
"Ummm, fitting in.  In Slytherin, I mean."  
  
"Yes, I managed, somehow.  While undoubtedly I might have been a better person if I'd been in Ravenclaw, being Slytherin was something I'd been training for since I first understood the concept of Houses.  And it made going home for holidays easier.  If I'd been in a different House, I probably couldn't have gone home."  He laughed bitterly.  "Maybe that's what the Hat meant."  
  
"And maybe everything's just clearer in hindsight," Hermione murmured.  Snape looked surprised.  He opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly.  "Maybe," he said quietly._

"What were your parents like?"  
  
"If you'd asked them if they knew me they probably would have denied it.  Hah.  I was the accident, the little mishap that made two people most incredibly unsuited to each other and to caring for a child stay together… I don't know why they didn't just break apart and dump me in an orphanage somewhere.  I suspect they enjoyed taking things out on each other, and me, when I was around, too much to bother.  It certainly wasn't love that held _our little happy home together._

Father was worst.  I don't think he ever understood that children aren't mini adults in shorter robes.  From the moment I could walk and string a few words together I was his student in everything.  Not that he was actually a teacher by profession; he just believed it was his duty to instruct me.  If I didn't understand, he persevered until I did.  I learnt to understand very quickly.  He had a very creative teaching style."  
  
"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered softly. 

Taking a deep breath, she leaned across the space between them, somehow found his hand, and placed her own on top of it.  "I'm sorry," she repeated.  His skin was soft and cool to her touch.

His breathing was almost silent.  Snape was so still that again Hermione began to think that she'd offended him.  Quickly she removed her hand, and withdrew to her side of the sofa, blushing.  

"Professor?  Professor Snape?"

"I think you had better go now, Miss Granger," he said roughly, almost swallowing the words.  "I'm sure you know where your room is.  Go!"  
  
Hermione was on her feet, out of habit, before she stopped to think that she'd just been sent to her room like a child.  At the threshold of the room she turned back, ready to give him a piece of her mind, and stopped, angry words forgotten, for Severus Snape had moved out of the darkness into the light of the single candle in the room, and the candlelight reflected brightly on his cheeks.

Hermione left the room.  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Throwing herself down on her bed, she narrowly missed Crookshanks. 

What had happened?  Nothing, really.  Yet she couldn't dislodge the feeling that something important had occurred that night, that she was just too blind or tired to realise.  She'd been talking, as usual, as had become a habit in the evenings of the last week, and he'd been listening.  Then she'd tried to turn the tables and get him to talk.  Strangely enough, he had.  Why? 

Though he definitely wasn't the touchy-feely type, it had seemed so natural there, just for a moment, to reach out to him.  Just like she would to Ron or Harry, or Ginny in a rare moment of closeness.  To try to bridge the gulf that that was there, always, between two people who barely knew each other but were starting to make an effort to learn.  Although the effort had been all hers - she'd shared so much about herself and barely got a look at his face in return!  Anyone with a shred of curiosity would want to glean something about their confidante in return, wouldn't they?  And she was hardly the barely curious type.

"I don't know anymore," Hermione whispered into her pillow.  "I thought I did, but now I don't, and I'm confused."  
  
"What's that, love?  Confused about something?"    
  
"Just life," she told the mirror.  "I'll get over it."  
  
"You make it sound like a disease!  Now Roie, she knew life was a blessing…"

"No, it _is a disease," said Hermione solemnly, remembering something she'd once heard from the Weasley twins (naturally enough, cackling with laughter.)  "It's socially transmitted, and it's one hundred percent fatal."_

If the mirror had eyes, they would be rolling in their sockets.  Perhaps the glass _was trembling a little in its frame.  "Honestly, young lady!  Life is something to be treasured!  If you'd been hanging around a dusty room for as long as I have, you'd recognise how valuable it is instead of bemoaning how unlucky you are!"  
  
"I wasn't moaning!" She sat up, startled._

"Yes you were," it said smugly.

"Wasn't!"

"Were too!"  
  
"Argh!  Just shut up and give me some peace, alright?"  
  
"Not until you admit that you _were moaning, and I __am right," said the mirror pompously.  Hermione sucked in her breath sharply, and eyed it appraisingly.  _

She couldn't use her wand, or she'd probably damage the delicate spells on the mirror.  Aggravating as it was, she still wanted to study it.  

"Well?  Am I right?"  
  
"No, you're not.  You're an annoying piece of glass that won't let me have any peace."  
  
"Well, I like that!"  It exclaimed huffily.  "Just an annoying piece of glass, hey?  I'll have you know that my frame is _real bronze, and my backing is sapient pearwood!  Think on that, then.  How many things do you know made out of sapient pearwood?"  
  
"Two, including you," Hermione said sharply, and marched quickly out  the door before she lost her nerve, leaving the mirror to complain loudly to a sleeping Crookshanks._

Author's Notes:

It's been a long time coming, but finally I've been able to put paw to keyboard and come up with a new installment.  The next chapter shouldn't be too long away, either.  (Hopefully!)  Thank you to all who reviewed, I'm honestly amazed that so many people like reading this, and I'm very glad that you do!!  I'm sorry that I don't have enough time to respond to everyone individually, but I'm uploading inbetween classes so it's a bit rushed.  Lol!

I would also like to say something about the title.  At the time I started writing this, it seemed appropriate along the lines of Hermione being 'in exile' from all she was close to, yet as the story has progressed it has become more and more apparent to me that it no longer fits.  I have decided, however, to leave it as it stands simply because so many people know it as such.  On another note, I have started writing the tale of Albus Dumbledore's first adventure with the luggage.  As soon as I've edited and re-edited, I'll be posting.  Look for it!  The title will be Wizards and Worldgates.  (A bit of shameless advertising never hurt anyone.)

**Disclaimer: As always, anything HP related is J.K. Rowling's, the luggage is Terry Pratchett's.  The idea of 'start at the middle, then you're not so far from either the beginning or the end', comes from Erle Stanley Gardner's _The Case of the Fugitive Nurse, a Perry Mason novel.  Got a problem?  So have I.  And if you like, I'll give you the name of my doctor._**

Lol!


	9. Clearing the Air (Or just what *has* the...

Chapter Nine: Clearing the Air (Or: Just What Has The Luggage Been Up To??)  
  
Now is as good a time as any to see just what that other creation of sapient pearwood, the ever more active and viciously tenacious piece of furniture, the irascible luggage, was doing.  
  
It was outside, not unusual for such a lovely evening, warm and dry with a sunset of red, gold and streaming pinks and violets on the horizon. Many were the days that the luggage would spend sunset out upon the cobblestones, basking in the last hues of light. Sometimes it would be joined by Albus Dumbledore, and they would sit together in silence, each reflecting on whatever held its or his attention.  
  
This night it was not unaccompanied, but not even one silvery hair of the affable headmaster's beard was in sight, let alone the man himself. The focus of the luggage's attention was perched, back arched, claws outstretched, hissing fiercely, upon a tree branch, glaring down as ferociously as only a cat can.  
  
Its green eyes were sharp with surprise and fear; every taut muscle was as finely tuned as a bow, waiting to spring for freedom as soon as it got the chance.  
  
But the luggage stood waiting, innocently, beneath the grand old oak, boards fairly humming and lid jiggling loosely. It was in that frame of mind known as making merry and to hell with the consequences. After Mrs Norris, the luggage was a little wary of eating anything that looked but didn't smell like Crookshanks, but that didn't mean it wasn't inclined to have a little fun with it. And this creature had reacted incredibly well. One look at the suitcase and it had streaked across the lawn, yowling in anguish. From the safety of its tree-branch it spat at the luggage, lashing its tail madly.  
  
Clack, clack, snapped the lid. It had almost managed to catch the small grey thing, before it had leapt to relative safety. What use was it having so many legs without being well-coordinated? The luggage would hardly have earned its murderous reputation without being able to move as quickly as it could fight. It was very good at both.  
  
As only a sapient pearwood suitcase with murder (if not dinner) on mind can, the luggage settled down at the base of the tree to wait.  
  
On the branch, the cat gave a furious yowl of hatred, and dug its claws more firmly into the branch.  
  
  
  
Snape was more than willing to help. Hermione had been incredibly nervous when she'd asked him if he'd consider assisting her in carrying the mirror from her room to the library. They could hardly study it in her bedroom, and it wasn't letting her get any sleep. This explanation was delivered in a breathless rush, and she finished it pleadingly, chewing on her lip.  
  
He laughed.  
  
Hermione noticed he'd already used a cosmetic charm to smooth away the redness of his eyes. Or had she just been imagining the candle's reflection on his skin?  
  
If she hadn't, what to think of it?  
  
Of course, he might just be touchy about the memories; whatever had made him cry – if it hadn't been her imagination after all - had to be painful enough (Or had it been her? Had he really been so offended by her? She'd only touched his hand!) that he'd wanted to forget it as rapidly as possible.  
  
Then again, she didn't know the first thing about psychoanalysing Snape, and she didn't think she wanted to.  
  
Try not to think about that, Hermione, she told herself severely. The mirror. Think about the mirror.  
  
"It's driving me nuts," she said forthrightly. "If I didn't want to study it, I'd put an elbow through it. I could always repair the glass later."  
  
"But the charms would be gone. Not, on the whole, a bad idea…"  
  
"Don't get any ideas of dropping it," Hermione added hastily. "I still want to study it and the charms!"  
  
"Yes, I know, you said. Now that we've finally managed to modify the describere spell, it would be a shame to smash the reason for our research."  
  
Hermione nodded, thinking about the work they'd done. That morning they'd made the break-through she'd been dreaming about. It looked a little shoddy, of course, as cobbled-together spells always do, but it worked. That was the main thing. Now if you said something, the dicto-quill drew it. And did a pretty good job, to. Hermione suspected that was Snape's input. Her own artwork at school had always been limited to stick-figures. How horrible if the quill had been the same! How useless all their work would have been…  
  
"Thinking, Miss Granger?"  
  
"Just musing that I'm glad the quill can actually draw. I can't."  
  
He smirked. "The Head-Girl admitting she can't do something? I'm shocked. Tut, tut."  
  
"Head-Girl??" Hermione leapt onto the two words instantly. "What did you say?"  
  
He affected a mock astonishment. It really was easy to bait her, thought the Professor, deeply amused. "What, you didn't know?" The dark eyes burned with mischievous mirth. "I'm sure the Headmaster will get around to telling you some day. Maybe even before school starts, if you're lucky."  
  
"Very funny. How did you know about it?"  
  
"Did you really think anyone else had a chance?" Snape's smile was fleeting, but genuinely pleasant. "Really, Miss Granger. Now I am surprised."  
  
Hermione looked at him and shook her head. "Oh, shut up," she said mildly. "Now, are you going to help me move this mirror or not?"  
  
  
  
The resilience of the Granger girl was a thing to be remarked on, thought Severus Snape as he trailed behind the girl towards her room. He had expected her to avoid him, to feel as awkward about that whole situation as he did, yet she seemed to have dismissed it as if nothing had happened.  
  
It was a little harder for him to ignore. He hadn't slipped like that since before he'd come to Hogwarts. Even as a teenager often victimised by Gryffindor stunts, he'd received the injuries and the slights with snide sneer fixed firmly in place. Always ready to lash out harder than he was hit, always armouring himself while hunting for weak places in others. It had become a habit. No chinks in the armour, then. None till now.  
  
(could mental armour rust?)  
  
(what kind of polish could you use?)  
  
So why?  
  
(was he just losing his touch?)  
  
And why now?  
  
Analysing it would probably drive him mad, but if he didn't, that surely would.  
  
Such a child, such a girl so raised in comfort and serenity… unaccustomed to the barriers she was even now scrabbling vainly against.  
  
Unaware of what complexities the brush of human fingers could convey. How trite, how silly then, that touch should be such an expert skill in one so young and inexperienced, and such a losing battle for him, not so! Not young. Experienced, far too much. Un-innocent, even. The rough edges of the word suited him far better than polished and proof-read, grammatically perfect phrases straight out of Grandma's disapproving mouth.  
  
Or the elegant mental litanies that would no doubt be the property of that aggravating girl. Aggravating Girl. Say it, think it, feel it. Forget it. Her.  
  
Aggravating girl.  
  
She'd revealed far more to him in their conversations than he suspected she realised; her life hadn't always been happy, but her parents had wanted to be together and both had desperately wanted a child. Hermione. Perhaps they saw her witchcraft as a rejection of them, and that as a betrayal, hurting all the more because it was from a child that they'd longed for. Perhaps they thought that all their energies were wasted. That though they'd wanted her, she hadn't wanted them.  
  
Incredible. It flashed through his mind that if he'd longed for something that much and finally got it, he wouldn't dream of turning it away just because it wasn't what he'd expected.  
  
"You're grinding your teeth, you know," said Hermione, bringing him back to reality.  
  
They were standing outside the door to her room. Her hand lay on the knob and she was regarding him with a mixture of concern and amusement.  
  
"Coming from a family of dentists, I believe there's about a hundred and one reasons why that's really bad. But mainly, it gets on my nerves. And it damages your teeth. Did you know?"  
  
"Now I do," he said wryly. "Do you actually want help with the mirror or do you just want to lecture me on my dental habits?"  
  
Hermione snorted and opened the door.  
  
  
  
Twenty five minutes, 38 seconds and quite a bit of swearing later, the library doors clanked shut on screams of seeming mortal agony. "Damn thing," muttered Hermione, shutting her eyes. Nodding absently, Snape pointed his wand at the door and hissed "Arohomola". The light blue mist that this created settled on the lock and sunk into the metal.  
  
"That's that, then," he said awkwardly. Stepped away from the doorway. "Good night, Miss Granger."  
  
"Wait. Professor."  
  
He half-turned on one heel, glancing quizzically back at her from underneath brows furrowed in absent thought. "Miss Granger?"  
  
The girl took a step forward. Shifting uncomfortably, she stared at him for a long moment.  
  
"Well?" he asked finally.  
  
"I'm sorry about earlier, Professor."  
  
"What the devil are you talking about?"  
  
"You know, um…when you kicked me out?"  
  
"No." Snape slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robes and hugged his upper arms thoughtfully. "I recall no such thing. After you had finished sharing your charming, innocent little thoughts with me, you felt tired and toddled off to bed. As I shall now. Good night, Miss Granger."  
  
How dare he! Hermione's mouth fell open and worked like mad to shut, but was too astonished to manage. The gall. The shear, plain, unadulterated gall. The nerve…  
  
"Miss Granger?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You're grinding your teeth, did you know?"  
  
That did it. Hermione left her place by the door and darted furiously at him. She put her hand in the middle of his chest and pushing him rapidly against the far wall.  
  
"Stop mocking me!" Angrily. Fingertips quivering where they touched his body. Nails bending. Not caring.  
  
"Stop being such a damn smart-arse. You just have to take every bloody opportunity to be such a freakin' wit, don't you? Sometimes you're almost decent and then you're opening your mouth again, putting me in my place, mocking me, belittling me, asserting your authority by laughing at me. I'm sick of it!"  
  
Standing on tip-toes, she brought her gaze level with his. Her eyes narrowed. "What gives you the right to try and make me feel inferior, Professor? Why do you let me bawl my eyes out, say out loud things I've never told anyone before, then try and pretend the one moment where your guard slipped never happened? Why!? Sometimes I think I know where I stand with you and then you go and change the rules. Bloody hell." Hermione hesitated a moment and chewed her lip.  
  
When she renewed her glare, she was breathing harder.  
  
"So then what? Then I try and apologise for overstepping the boundaries and you push me away, not even doing me the courtesy of accepting my apology. You gave me a little lecture on respect, Professor; now I'll give you one. That's all I'm asking for. Just a little, goddamned respect! Hell knows I respect you, I even admire so much of your work, your character, your courage." She gave a bitter laugh. "But then when I think we're getting along fine, you turn around and swat me like a nervous first year. I'm not a first year, and I'm no longer nervous about anything you can do or say to me. I'm just pissed off." And she pulled away, gathering herself tall and trying not to look at his response. "Good night, Professor Snape."  
  
  
  
For a long time Severus just stood there, resting against the wall. Bloody hell.  
  
As she had said. The aggravating girl. That girl who seemed to think she knew so well what it was like to be a woman, yet who had barely even known the shattering of her innocence.  
  
(she knew something, yes, but he knew far more)  
  
He was the one who needed to be resilient now. And damned if it weren't harder than it looked. Much harder.  
  
It took him a good few minutes of trying to understand Hermione's words before he realised she hadn't moved much, either. Now she was staring at him with a beseeching look on her face. 'Oops', said the expression. So blatantly childish. And even more delightful.  
  
The only way this one could possess any 'Slytherin' qualities would be if she suffered more than he ever had. Her resilience was astounding.  
  
Slowly he caught her eyes. Hermione blinked sheepishly but didn't look away. "Um, I got a little carried away. Sorry?"  
  
She looked at the floor, something Severus was actually considering the merits of himself. The floor was quite fascinating, really. It was all shades of grey and such an interesting type of stone… More than that, it was safe!  
  
Time to take a deep lungful of water. "I'm sorry, too, Hermione," he replied in a voice he barely recognised.  
  
"You didn't get carried away. Well, not really." He allowed himself a slight smile. "I guess that what I'm trying to say is yes, I agree with you, you were right. I did push away a perfectly good apology.  
  
"Will you accept mine?"  
  
Gradually Hermione turned her study of the floor into a careful one of his face. Snape stood still, watching the unreadable eyes examine him. Finally she smiled. "You're forgiven," said Hermione.  
  
Four steps to close the distance between them. Now she was barely inches away from him, making Severus even more aware that she was, as he had just belatedly realised, no longer a child. "You're forgiven," she repeated softly. "Am I?"  
  
Severus took a deep steadying breath. "Yes," he murmured.  
  
"Good," she said.  
  
They remained in silence for a handful of heartbeats. Then Hermione raised her head to once again meet his eyes, only now her own were filled with amusement, not anger, and another sort of rueful apology. "I hope we don't bicker like this for the rest of the holidays."  
  
He smiled again, a chuckle almost making its way to his lips. "Why?" he asked innocently. "Are you afraid of matching wits with the dreaded Potions Master?"  
  
"Oh, absolutely," she murmured, amused, relieved, relaxing. "I can't sleep at night without terror."  
  
She stepped back, allowing him some more personal space. Severus began to breathe again, not quite aware of when he'd stopped.  
  
Hermione seemed to be toying with something. Finally she said, in a quick outrush of breath, "I seriously can't sleep after all that, though. Would the 'dreaded Potions Master' consider going for a walk?"  
  
Surprised by her own boldness, she blushed hurriedly and starting re- examining the walls.  
  
At this rate, she'd know all the physical features of Hogwarts like the back of her hand before school started.  
  
(well, not all of them…)  
  
Still, he did have a nice smile.  
  
The blush, smugly triumphant, crept up the back of her neck.  
  
And there Hermione felt his breath before the light, almost questioning, touch brushed along her arm. "He would be delighted," Severus whispered in response.  
  
Risking another glance up into the fathomless dark gaze, Hermione nodded slowly and quashed an inward sigh of regret as his touch slid away.  
  
She smiled. "Thank you," she said quietly.  
  
He strode unhurriedly beside her up the passage. Hermione's smaller legs had to work a little harder. Eventually, he tugged on the heavy wooden door and gestured for her to precede him out into the golden evening air.  
  
  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
**Thank you to hundine from hermionenseverus who suggested the little incident with the luggage! Possibilities, possibilities…**  
  
Disclaimer: As always.  
  
Reviews:  
  
Prettyflower&Prettyflower's EEEVVVIIILLL Twin – No review EVER means 'nothing'! I am delighted by all your incredible comments – and humbly honoured. Thank you!  
  
Dorothy – the Luggage heard your call. Here it is! (It sends its regards, as well.) Thank you for your compliments about the Granger stuff. It's hard to get the right tone without going overboard, so I'm really happy you like it!  
  
EvilGeniusSmurf – Sure. And I love your username!  
  
Strega Brava – I don't know. I wouldn't want the poor trunk to be poisoned.  
  
Jenserai – Look funny at them and mutter a few latin words under your breath. That should do the trick.  
  
Ruby – That's facinating. Where did you learn that?  
  
All my other lovely reviewers – Thank you. If I had more time I'd answer everyone. 


	10. The Luggage Has Kittens

Chapter Ten: The Luggage has Kittens  
  
The days passed rapidly now that Severus and Hermione were no longer achingly tempted to tear out each other's throats. Evenings spent recounting Hermione's childhood became evenings filled with more two-sided conversation. No more blow-ups happened. Now that the simmering tension between the pair had been released, the dungeons were a slightly more pleasant place to live. They were still cold, damp and draughty, but they weren't quite as explosive. (At least, when the luggage was napping, that was.)  
  
Surprisingly, the luggage had started to curtail its adventures to the dungeons and Hermione's immediate vicinity, after what came to be known as the McGonagall incident. The two main activities of the suitcase were dogging Hermione's feet and guarding the end of her bed, which, as Snape acridly remarked, would make life interesting for one Mr Ronald Weasley once school resumed and he returned to his amorous pursuits. Hermione hadn't been quite sure how to take that comment. Not that she hadn't ever looked at Ron that way, of course, but she'd never seriously thought of going to bed with him. But even if she'd wanted to, as he'd observed, they'd have to contend with a highly jealous trunk first.  
  
The great alteration of the luggage's behaviour was, of course, due to the presence of Professor Minerva McGonagall. Having been chased by the luggage in her animagi form on her first day back at school, she took an immediate dislike to the trunk as great as Dumbledore's liking, drawing her wand threateningly whenever she had the chance.  
  
The luggage was shocked, hurt and a little puzzled. Furry little yowling things weren't supposed to turn into sour faced witches with a grudge! Hermione had tried to soothe the ruffled egos as best she could, but the luggage's lid and McGonagall's tail remained firmly out of joint. The relationship between her Head of House and her suitcase progressed best when they were at opposite ends of the castle. Try as she might, there wasn't really much that she could do about it.  
  
There was one other major problem that the luggage had caused, however, and this she could remedy, at least to an extent.  
  
So that was how Hermione Granger and Severus Snape  
  
("Did you really think I would allow you to go gallivating around by yourself, Miss Granger?"  
  
"You just don't want to be left out of any fun."  
  
"I refuse to dignify that with a comment!")  
  
came to be standing in the Hogsmeade pet shop, looking over the selection of felines with critical eyes.  
  
"Do you think he'd like that one?" Hermione asked dubiously, picking up a sleepy black and white furball.  
  
Snape shook his head. "No. Too docile."  
  
"How about this one, then?"  
  
"Miss Granger! The thing is chewing on your sleeve!"  
  
"That's what kittens do, Professor. Would you like to hold him?"  
  
"I don't think-"  
  
"See, he likes you!" she announced triumphantly.  
  
Severus glanced down at the long tortoiseshell tail that was wrapped firmly around his arm. The kitten it was attached to was bathing his hand with a dry, rough tongue, and rumbling deeply within its tiny chest.  
  
"I don't think it would be wise to introduce any more felines to the vicinity of that monster of yours than is absolutely necessary," he said weakly. He stroked the little furry head absently with long, well-licked fingers.  
  
Hermione looked across at the luggage, which was sitting in the doorway and preventing anyone from entering or leaving the shop. "You. Suitcase. Come here," she said loudly. The trunk shuddered visibly in response. Lifting itself up onto many gnarled and hairy, dirty feet, it trotted obediently over to her side.  
  
"I really don't think this is wise, Miss Granger," Severus protested, watching the luggage with distrust and suspicion. She sighed. "It'll be fine. C'mon, give him here." Not without visible reluctance, he allowed her to take the kitten and place it on the floor next to the case.  
  
"Now, make friends," she instructed them. "Luggage, you're not allowed to harass him, because he's going to be living with Professor Snape, and we all have to get along."  
  
"Now, wait a minute," the aforementioned Professor Snape protested loudly, "I haven't said I'm buying that thing!"  
  
Hermione smiled sweetly. "Oh, haven't you?"  
  
After a cursory study of the kitten, the trunk seemed to lose interest and waggled its lid in Hermione's direction. "Yes?" she asked it calmly.  
  
It shook itself once, then prodded the kitten with an experimental toe. The kitten promptly jumped on it, batting it with alternate front paws. Long-sufferingly, the luggage tried to exude an air of being put-upon. It jiggled pitiably. One foot pawed the ground with a soft, pathetic scuff.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop complaining," she said. "You're not really suffering. You're just like him, really," and she flashed a quick and mischievous glance at Snape, "you act all tough and nasty, but you're not all bad."  
  
"I object to being compared with a homicidal suitcase!"  
  
"Well…it's not really homicidal, is it?" She gestured at the luggage, which had given in and was now wagging alternate toes for the kitten to pounce on. "Could you call that homicidal?"  
  
He smirked. "I'd bet Professor McGonagall would."  
  
Trying to keep a straight face didn't work for long. Despite her efforts, Hermione broke out laughing. "That was cruel," she argued.  
  
"But I've never seen her run so fast," Snape observed innocently. "It was positively educational. Who would think that our strict professor could have so much fur sticking up at once?"  
  
"Oh, please," she groaned. "No wonder you two don't get along. You're always bickering and sniping at each other like an old married couple."  
  
Snape scowled in indignation. "When I develop any slight romantic interest in Professor McGonagall, I will hang myself," he announced, sneering coldly. "I can assure you, my interests are firmly in another direction."  
  
Hermione wasn't sure whether to be hopeful, curious or offended. She didn't think he meant he was like Remus, but…if she wasn't careful, and he was, well, she could end up embarrassing herself pretty greatly.  
  
Sneaking another glance at him when he was once again involved in perusing the cats, she wondered how she could have let herself start thinking about him in such a way. Thinking Like That Meant Trouble, said a little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like a conscience. Only it was bad luck, since it had woken up far too late. Trouble or not, Hermione had already begun to Think Like That. Though she wasn't sure she liked it, she wasn't sure that she disliked it either. Now that they weren't trading insults in every conversation (well, not nasty ones, anyway), Snape's company was fun. Like sniping around with Harry and Ron, although they weren't ever quite so…intense. Around them, she always felt like the third wheel on a bicycle anyway. Capable of running in synch, but certainly not necessary.  
  
"How about this one?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"This kitten, Miss Granger. For Filch?" The scraggly, toothy specimen he held up had claws extended and a baleful, contemptuous glare.  
  
"Oh, it's perfect!" she laughed. "Where did you find him?"  
  
He nodded towards the shop-owner, a middle-aged weedy carrot-stick man with a moustache, glasses and a nervous twitch. "Mr Parry had him out the back, since he's not exactly the best advertisement for the stock. Besides, he apparently tends to attack or frighten the other animals when he has the chance."  
  
"Definitely perfect," Hermione repeated with feeling.  
  
Glancing down, she noticed that the little tortoiseshell kitten was nowhere to be seen. Oh well, she thought, a trifle sadly, it had been worth a try. Snape needed something to fuss over, but maybe he wasn't that obviously baited. Tempted. Whatever.  
  
Between Snape and Parry the young cat eventually found its way into a carry case. It wasn't fully grown, but this tom would certainly be a monster when he was. A foul, evil minded monster, to look at how he was developing so far. Certainly a fair match for Mrs Norris' foul and withered old heart. Wherever it was now.  
  
Mr Parry cleared his throat loudly. Getting back behind his counter, he picked up a small strip of parchment and gave it a final flick with his quill, tallying figures. "That'll be 2 galleons for the fiend, ah, cat, and 5 for the girl. That little lady of yours has good breeding lines, you know," and he winked roguishly.  
  
Hermione spluttered incoherently.  
  
Choking with laughter, Severus handed over a palmful of galleons and accepted the second cat carrier from behind the counter.  
  
  
  
"Okay, laugh all you like," she said huffily as soon as they were out of the shop. "It's funny, I'm sure it is." Hermione crossed her arms and glared at him.  
  
Weakly, Snape put down the carriers and tried vainly to stop smiling. "If you had seen your face…"  
  
"I don't care."  
  
"…priceless…better than Minerva's…"  
  
"I'm starting to sympathise with her, you know."  
  
He recovered himself slightly. "Apparently we misjudged her gender."  
  
"McGonagall's?" asked Hermione, archly, setting him off again.  
  
She'd never seen him laugh so much before.  
  
"No, the kitten! Oh, you know what I mean…" he gestured vaguely, still smirking with amusement.  
  
"Okay, okay. I'll let you off the hook." This time, her expression said. "Have you decided on a name for her yet?"  
  
He shook his head. "Something will suggest itself, I am sure. In these matters, something always does."  
  
"I just hope Filch likes his kitten, now we've gone to the trouble of getting it for him," Hermione replied, hefting the carrier with the yellow eyed, black fur tom. Rather smugly she thought, Severus picked up the one containing his new acquisition.  
  
  
  
Filch adored him.  
  
Moggy and master exchanged curious looks before the one began to rumble loudly, and the other developed suspiciously bright, beady eyes.  
  
Shifting uncomfortably, Hermione said, "Seeing as it was my fault and all about Mrs Norris, I mean, it was my trunk that, ah…"  
  
"Well, at least yeh're decent about it," Filch muttered.  
  
"Um, yeah."  
  
"Come 'ere, lassie." To Hermione's horror, the caretaker, still cradling the cat in one arm, proceeded to put the other one around her shoulders and squeeze. "Thank yeh," he mumbled into her hair.  
  
Awkwardly, Hermione raised a tentative hand to pat his shoulder. The cat spat at her. She quickly pulled it back and narrowly escaped being scratched.  
  
Filch, releasing her, hugged the tom in both arms and bid her an incoherent good-day, blinking misty-eyed every time his arms were needled by friendly claws.  
  
When he was gone, Hermione turned to glare at Snape, who was managing to both smirk and chuckle evilly at once.  
  
"Not a word," she hissed. "Not a word."  
  
Hermione swept past him as regally as she could achieve.  
  
Her final words floated back to him. "I need a bath. Now."  
  
Severus decided offering to help was out of the question, and under the circumstances, might very well be misconstrued.  
  
Weakly he regarded the furball fast asleep on his hand, and, somewhat surprised, the luggage that was watching him expectantly. It seemed even the most intrepid of travelling accessories knew not to interfere with its Mistress when she was in a bad mood.  
  
If only Argus could have borrowed some of its tact!  
  
Still smirking, but feeling quite laughed-out for one day, Severus waited a further five minutes to ensure he didn't run into Hermione in the hallway, then set off for the dungeons himself, luggage trailing obediently behind.  
  
  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
Disclaimer – Same as (nearly) always. Nothing new this time. 


	11. Mona Lisa

Chapter Eleven: Mona Lisa  
  
The kitten was named Mona, but within a day or two Hermione began calling her Lisa, on the basis that she was such a classic. In an unamused silky- toned lecture, she was informed that Mona was a classic Irish name for 'little noble one', but, of course, it was Lisa that stuck.  
  
So did the luggage. In an unforeseen turn of events, the luggage appointed itself the kitten's protector against Gollum, the caretaker's new fiend.  
  
Gollum was everywhere. New leather pads adorned all portions of Filch's anatomy to shield from sharpened claws, yet he always seemed to be wearing a new wound every time anyone saw him. Like Hagrid, he wore his scratches with pride.  
  
Hagrid viewed the new additions to the Hogwarts menagerie as an early birthday gift. (Though the person who tried to gift-wrap Gollum would have to be just plain stupid!) Gollum he sighed over. "A nice, 'andsome, beastie," he proclaimed happily after nearly losing an eye to a well-placed swipe. When the luggage brought Lisa to meet him, Hagrid was ecstatic.  
  
The visitors announced themselves with a lot of scuffing and clunking on the doorstep. The half-giant, who had just finished baking a tray of rock- cakes, opened the door expecting to see Hermione. About time she came to pay him another visit. Far too much time inside, that girl was spending. She needed Harry and Ron to stop her fading away to nothing in the library.  
  
"Well, 'ello," he said when his guests were revealed.  
  
"C'mon in, yeh know yeh're allus welcome, 'specially you now, 'aven't seen much a' ya fer a'while." The luggage managed to look sheepish.  
  
"Never mind, who's yeh lil friend? Right pretty lil thing, aren't ya? C'mon, hop up 'ere an lets 'ave a look at ya."  
  
The kitten concentrated. Bunching up her back legs, she sprang onto a chair seat. She looked up at the table and Hagrid's hairy face, and miaowed.  
  
"Bit o' a jump fer ya, is it? Shoulda known, shoulda known, c'mon then." With large fleshy fingers he reached down and lifted the kitten tenderly onto the table.  
  
Lisa stood unsteadily on the rough surface. She took a tottering step forward, then another. This was fun. This place smelt nice.  
  
With the look of a doting parent, Hagrid stroked her belly. She purred contentedly. "Oh, yeh are a pretty one," the gamekeeper purred. "Are yeh 'ungry? Yeh want summat teh eat? Think I got summat 'ere, think I do, yes, 'ere we are, 'ere's some milk, I'll give it yeh in a saucer-" he poured the liquid onto a flat, chipped plate "-and I'll give yeh some cake, too. Just baked a nice new batch, I 'ave, 'Agrid's famous rock cakes they are. You'll love 'em. Well, if yeh can eat 'em. Don't feel obliged though. I don' want yeh to go eating summat jus' because yeh think I want yeh to." Wagging one thick finger under the kitten's whiskers, Hagrid tried to assume a fierce expression.  
  
Lisa pounced.  
  
Little claws scrabbled ineffectively against his weathered skin. But they brought tears of joy to the beaming black eyes. "Oh, yeh are a pretty one," he repeated.  
  
"No talkin', yeh. I'm allowed to talk to me pretty darlin' 'ere without yeh making faces."  
  
The luggage looked huffy.  
  
I wasn't!  
  
"'Cause yeh were," Hagrid said affectionately. "Isn't that true, sweetie?"  
  
The little tortoiseshell face looked up at him solemnly.  
  
Hagrid cooed, "'Ave a crumb, go on, won' hurt ya, I wouldn't do that to such a lovely lil girl." Lisa licked tentatively at a crumb of rock cake. It was unusual. She liked it, even if it was a bit hard to swallow. Her teeth were unaccustomed to chewing so much.  
  
Hagrid waited patiently, beaming all over, for her opinion.  
  
When she'd finished her crumb, he said, "There, now wasn't that nice, me little lovely? Jus' a nice bit a cake, never 'urt no one."  
  
But Lisa had never eaten such solid food before, and she threw up.  
  
Cooing, Hagrid carefully lifted her onto the chair, and cleaned up the mess while muttering how rock cakes never 'urt no-one before.  
  
Then he dipped his finger in the milk and held it to her mouth. The first few tries, Lisa pulled away, which left her whiskers smeared with milk.  
  
Again, Hagrid sat back and waited.  
  
The funny stuff on her face smelt nicer than the cake crumb, so she took a lick. It wasn't bad. Carefully, the little kitten cleaned her face and looked up to Hagrid for more. It wasn't cream like Daddy gave her, of course, but the slightly tangy milk had the taste of a forbidden snack, so she wanted to drink as much of it as she could.  
  
The next milky finger that hovered in front of her mouth was received with enthusiasm and she licked happily.  
  
This was the life!!  
  
  
  
Luggage thought so, too.  
  
  
  
"So whatt've yeh bin up to, yeh great big suitcase?"  
  
Ambling over to get its lid scratched, Luggage tried to look innocent. Hagrid, well recognising the look, only laughed.  
  
"Din't go after Flich or McGonagall agin, 'ave yeh? Yeh know they both want yeh blood, yeh splinters or summat, jus' gotta learn to lighten up a bit, both o' 'em.  
  
"An' how's 'Ermione? 'Aven't seen 'er much, now that she's allus workin' on summat or other, that girl o' yours works a bit too hard, don'cha think? Oughta come out an' 'ave a bit of summer air an' get a few freckles on 'er nose. What do yeh think?"  
  
Luggage shrugged. Or rather, Hagrid saw it as a shrug, but in actual fact it jiggled its lid and did a little dance. The Mistress can do what she likes, it was saying.  
  
"An' 'ave yeh bitten Snape yet? 'E's a bit o' a git, in my opinion, yeh should giv' 'im a good few bites around the ankles. Get 'im 'oppin'!"  
  
Hagrid boomed with laughter. Fang raised his head from the mat in the corner. He'd been asleep.  
  
"Sorry, ol' boy." The half-giant apologised with a rueful grin and tossed the dog a rock cake. It was gone in one swallow. Shutting his eyes, he laid his head back down on his paws and nodded off again.  
  
"Don' go round repeatin' this now, but I don' think 'e's got much longer," Hagrid confided to the Luggage. Lisa was too involved in gnawing on his fingers to listen. The wooden trunk, however, was a very attentive audience.  
  
Go on, it said.  
  
"Well, it's jus' that 'e's bin gettin' a bit ol', an' yeh know 'ow 'e is, 'e's gettin' slower an' slower, poor ol' thing. I 'ad 'im since 'e was a puppy, yeh know." He looked doleful. "'E 'asn't changed a bit."  
  
Luggage looked dubious.  
  
"Still teh same lil coward 'e's allus bin. Good ol' friend though, me ol' Fang."  
  
Fang slept on, and Luggage kept listening to Hagrid's monologue. Occasionally Lisa would give a little mewl. The meaty fingers offered no purchase for her little teeth and now she sat bunched up on Hagrid's lap, hooking her claws into the fabric of his trousers.  
  
As the last rock cake disappeared down Hagrid's throat, the peace was broken.  
  
With a loud, resounding boom, the hut's wooden door crashed inwards. The noise made three occupants jump. (Fang never stirred.) A dark, ominous figure filled the doorway. Robes billowed.  
  
No one spoke.  
  
Lisa's little forehead crunched up in concentration. This person smelt familiar! As the figure stepped forward, she figured it out.  
  
Daddy!  
  
Ears over paws and tail over whiskers, she jumped off the chair and darted madly towards him.  
  
Professor Snape stooped and picked up the kitten. Cradling it tenderly against his chest, he glared at Hagrid and snarled "Mr. Hagrid, would you kindly like to explain what you are doing with my cat?"  
  
  
  
The luggage had the decency to look guilty. After Hagrid mumbled out something about them jus' comin' over ta visit, Snape rounded on the contrite suitcase.  
  
"Explain yourself," he said shortly.  
  
One foot pawed the ground. The others tried to hide behind it. The luggage ended up looking ashamed of itself, which was, for it, quite a remarkable feat.  
  
"Did you ever think of letting someone know your whereabouts?"  
  
Sorry. The lid wagged once.  
  
"Well, I hope you're satisfied. I had no idea where you and Mona had gone."  
  
You could have asked the Mistress. She would have known.  
  
Snape sighed. "You're trying to tell me that Miss Granger knew where you were, aren't you?"  
  
As the luggage was of the opinion that she could have guessed, it tried to look like it agreed.  
  
"For your information, I couldn't ask her. She's having tea with her Head of House."  
  
Oh. The luggage shuffled forward and rubbed the side of its lid against his robes. Sorry, then.  
  
"I've never seen 'im so tame wit' anyone before," Hagrid marvelled in surprise. "Want a rock cake, Professor?"  
  
The Potions Master viewed them with distaste. "No. Thank you."  
  
"Yeh sure?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Well, alright, then, if yeh're sure. I jus' didn't want ta eat in front of yeh, that's all." He took a big bite of well-burned muffin. Crumbs scattered through his beard.  
  
Snape's lips twisted themselves into a further grimace.  
  
"Believe me, it would be a sensation which I believe I could do without."  
  
Absently he rubbed the kitten. His fingers stopped when they brushed a cake crumb. Coldly, Snape held it up.  
  
"I'm waiting, Hagrid," he snapped. "What is this?"  
  
"It's cake, Professor, good bit o' rock cake that I was jus' givin' teh lil lassie, looked a bit 'ungry…"  
  
Shutting his eyes, Snape dropped the crumb as though it were poison. "The 'little lassie' is only six weeks old. She isn't accustomed to such 'cake'. Not to mention that if she were it would hardly be a good thing."  
  
"It's not too bad," Hagrid protested. "She wen' at it right steady, didn't yeh, love?"  
  
Lisa mewled.  
  
"Wonderful. Now my kitten has betrayed me. Young lady, you have been led astray by a suitcase that ought to know better. Don't creep outside!" This last to the luggage, who knew the benefits of a speedy getaway. "Your owner is not here to defend you and I am appalled at you. How could you let Mona consume such food when it would make her ill?"  
  
He'd noticed the last vestiges of kitten spit on the table. Great, thought Hagrid. The man had maternal instincts stronger than Professor McGonagall's.  
  
Glumly, the gamekeeper settled heavily into his seat and waited for Snape to run out of steam.  
  
It took quite a while.  
  
Eventually, huffily, he stalked out with Lisa riding pillion on his shoulder and the luggage trotting abashedly at his heels. It twitched its lid once at Hagrid in embarrassed farewell, then scampered to keep up.  
  
"I wonder how Harry will take the news?" Hermione observed.  
  
She wasn't talking to Snape, of course, or to Hagrid or a sheepish looking luggage, but to Professor McGonagall over a pot of coffee and a plate of much nicer scones than anything baked by Hagrid.  
  
McGonagall shrugged. "I think he'll be happy. Not everyone has two best friends in positions of power, after all."  
  
"Still…" Hermione sipped her coffee and frowned. "Ron? He wouldn't have been my first choice as Head-Boy. Harry, or maybe even Draco, but not Ron. It hardly seems right."  
  
"Why? Because he's always been the third wing on the owl that was you and Harry?"  
  
Hermione blinked at this. The analogy was a little strange.  
  
"I always thought I was the odd one out, really. I mean, Harry and Ron are much closer to each other than they are to me."  
  
"But you and Harry have always been the star achievers, not Ron." McGonagall leaned forward in her seat and gave her favourite student a warm smile. "That might have been a little bit of mine and Albus' fault, of course, but it's always been warranted! No, Ron is a bit more the average student…but he gets along very well with nearly all the lower years, and not just Gryffindors. I think they see him as a little less 'threatening', perhaps, than you two?"  
  
Hermione ingested a scone in silence.  
  
"Albus and I have talked it over, and we feel a bit more responsibility will do him good. He's a brotherly type, he'll do well looking after the younger ones and giving advice. He could do with a bit of responsibility after always being the little brother in his family. And because of that, he can understand what the younger students are going through."  
  
"Still…it just seems an unusual step, that's all."  
  
McGonagall rolled her eyes. "I know, you were set on Harry being Head Boy. Or Draco, didn't you say?" She laughed. "Ron might not cut as imposing a figure as one of your choices, Hermione, but I think he'll be good at the job. A real 'older brother' figure, someone that the littlies can identify with, someone very approachable."  
  
"Yeah, I just…" Hermione gave her a brilliant smile. "I would love to see his face when he hears the news!"  
  
McGonagall patted her hand. "I'm sure you're the first person he'll tell," she said, and winked. 


	12. Never Ignore a Thoughtful Suitcase

Chapter Twelve: Never Ignore a Thoughtful Suitcase  
  
"What?" asked Hermione.  
  
McGonagall rolled her eyes. "Miss Granger, sometimes you are impossibly dense!"  
  
"I'm sure I don't have a clue what you mean," Hermione murmured. Innocently. Too innocently.  
  
"I'm sure you don't," her Head of House said severely.  
  
"Professor, I am the picture of ignorance, I assure you."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"My conception of your meaning is greatly limited. I am completely in the dark!"  
  
"Miss Granger, this is highly unlike you. I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about! Listen to yourself. 'My conception of your meaning', indeed. My dear girl, you can't tell me you've been friends with Ron as long as you have without noticing the poor boy hanging on your every movement! Mr Weasely is besotted. At the very least, it is quite obvious to myself and everyone else in your Transfigurations class!" This very un- McGonagall-like outburst was followed by an impassioned clink of coffee cup in saucer. Dear Professor McGonagall, the girl thought amusedly; whenever her stern façade slipped, it was to reveal a fiercely protective and maternal side like that of any mother cat. It was a wonder she didn't have children, really. The way she fussed over her young 'cubs' on those rare occasions showed just how very fond she was of all of them.  
  
Hermione waited a few seconds before she replaced her coffee cup on the table and said, with the straightest face she could manage, "There is your problem, then, Professor McGonagall. I must have been paying far too much attention to Transfigurations to notice the behaviour of my class mates. I apologise for my oversight. Silly of me."  
  
She made a dignified exit before an open-mouthed McGonagall, doubling over with laughter as soon as she was safely outside.  
  
Ron? Oh, dear. Of course she'd noticed! He went red every time he looked at her. But still, he was only a very dear friend. She could never think of him that way anymore than she could, say, Neville.  
  
Regaining her breath, she thought ruefully that it was her fault she was such a star pupil. Because of that, McGonagall doted on her like a favourite niece, or even, heavens forbid, a well-loved granddaughter. And it was a well-documented fact that older women with overdeveloped maternal instincts liked to show young women that they cared about them by arranging and re-arranging their love lives. McGonagall was obviously trying to play matchmaker. Like that dreadful woman in Sense and Sensibility, what was her name again? The one who said "Every suitor needs a little bit of help", then nearly ruined both Marianne's and Elinor's love lives by putting in her two pounds worth!  
  
If it weren't so flaming ludicrous (and for the fact of a virtuous and thorough grounding in the arts of dental care) she would have ground down her teeth to the gums at the thought of her Head of House deciding to play a well-meaning, if slightly unhelpful, Cupid.  
  
Hermione started off towards her room to find some parchment and a quill to owl Harry, since he would have found it hilarious and she could trust him not to breathe a word of it to Ron, when she remembered both that he was on holidays with the Weaselys, so Ron would probably read the note the same time that Harry would, and the one very important little fact that had just slipped her mind. She hadn't told either Harry or Ron about the problem with her parents. They didn't know she was at Hogwarts. And since she hadn't told them that because she didn't want them to pity her (teenage boys being teenage boys, any sympathy would surely degenerate into poorly hidden pity for their 'little Mione' – especially on Ron's part, the loving, silly clod!), she couldn't tell them anything that happened at Hogwarts now without explaining that, so she couldn't owl Harry about this. Damn.  
  
It made her feel rather deflated. So instead, Hermione headed off towards the kitchens in search of comfort food, and the dungeons for the copy of the works of Swiss mediwizard Abbé Kuenzle that Snape had lent her the day after he'd dosed her with one of the man's favourite herbs. Apparently, Kuenzle had worked as much among Muggles, sharing his knowledge of plant lore, as he had among wizards, advancing the quality of medimagic. It was a fascinating topic.  
  
She managed about twenty minutes of blissful study before her solitude was interrupted.  
  
Hermione put down her notebook and sighed. Tenderly she marked her place in the old leather bound volume with reverence, and tucked it away behind her. Out of sight, out of mind.  
  
She fixed a disapproving glare upon her face. "Okay, Luggage," said the Mistress, "Just what have you been up to?"  
  
On penitent feet, the trunk shuffled into the room. "Well?" Hermione demanded. She crossed her arms, then thought better of it. It made her feel like a kid having a tantrum.  
  
"I'm waiting."  
  
The suitcase looked at her sadly. It always amazed her how something that was essentially just a wooden box surrounded by metal strips could seem to have so much personality. "Have you been in trouble again?"  
  
Sorrowfully, its lid wagged. Once.  
  
"What happened? Will you tell me or will I have to drag it out of you?"  
  
Outside the room, Snape stopped. This sounded like a fascinating conversation! Creeping forward, he leant against the wall next to the partially open door.  
  
"C'mon. You didn't chase McGonagall again, since I only left her a little while ago, so what did you do? You didn't try to eat Gollum, did you?"  
  
Scratch, scratch. The luggage indicated a negative by scratching its toenails against the floor.  
  
"Good. I couldn't bear having to go through that again with Filch because of you. Not that he'd probably have anything to do with me if you did it, you know. Not that I'd blame you. I hate that cat. So does McGonagall! You know what she told me? That blasted cat's randy as hell. He thinks, apparently, that she makes a very attractive feline. Between you and that creature, she's afraid to use her animagi form at Hogwarts anymore!  
  
"Alright, I know it's funny, you know it's funny, but it really is serious for Professor McGonagall. The poor woman." Hermione sighed. "Although, maybe it would be good for her to worry about her own 'love' life for a bit. She's getting clucky."  
  
The chest did a little dance of interest. Hermione nodded. "Yes, she wants to marry me off. Or not really marry me off, just set me up with someone. You don't know him. He's on holidays. His name's Ron. He doesn't like cats. I don't know how he feels about suitcases. I mean, he's got one, obviously, but I seriously doubt he's ever spent much time talking to it. It's just a box. No teeth. No feet."  
  
The Luggage hastened to assure her that it wouldn't spend any time talking to something like that, either. Just a box! No personality. No character. No originality! It found the thought quite shocking. It wouldn't have minded meeting a lady Luggage, were the truth to be known in the depths of its sapient pearwood interior, but it had had many years in this world beyond its homeland to learn, sadly, that it was one of a kind.  
  
So it merely rubbed its lid against the Mistress' legs to show its affection for her. If this Professor McGonagall was so certain that its Mistress belonged with this Ron character, when she so obviously didn't like the thought, she would have to go through it, first. Absently, the Luggage jiggled its lock and formulated thoughts of murder.  
  
"Thanks, Luggage. You're a good friend, you know that?"  
  
Of course it did!  
  
"But it makes nice symmetry, I suppose. McGonagall told me Ron's going to be Head Boy, so I guess I can see where she's co-"  
  
A muffled snort made her stop. The luggage did not snort. She had not snorted. There was no cat in her room (a quick check under the bed ascertained Crookshanks was indeed absent).  
  
Hermione looked thoughtfully towards the doorway. Something she saw made her smile.  
  
"You can come in now, Professor Snape. I can see the edge of your cloak."  
  
"Miss Granger." He stalked in, and without asking permission, seated himself in the armchair beside the desk. Opposite where she sat, cross- legged, on the bed.  
  
"Do you always eavesdrop on other people's conversations?"  
  
"It was hardly a conversation, Miss Granger, just a fascinating piece of monologue. And I wasn't exactly 'eavesdropping'." He sneered at the word.  
  
"No, of course not," Hermione said dryly. "You were just walking by and just happened to hear, isn't that right?"  
  
"I object to what you are implying!"  
  
"Well, that's too bad. Guess I might just have to sic Luggage onto you then. What do you think, Luggage?"  
  
It sat thoughtfully. One foot twitched.  
  
"It's not too enthusiastic," Snape observed.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It probably just doesn't want to leave Lisa an orphan."  
  
"Her name is Mona. An elegant, old name. 'Lisa' is far too common! I have several students named Lisa."  
  
"Oh, dear. We wouldn't want anyone to think you're playing favourites now by naming her after anyone, wouldn't we? Why didn't you just name her Dragon and be done with it? Or Slythie? Or Little Serpent? Or Neville Longbottom II?"  
  
"WHAT??" Snape's startled yelp made the Luggage take a protective step in front of its Mistress. Helplessly, Hermione wiped her eyes.  
  
"Did you say something, Professor?"  
  
"I was just going to say that – Miss Granger, do you always sleep with my textbooks under your pillow?"  
  
"What?" She spun around and made a grab for the book, but Snape moved much faster, and extracted the Kuenzle work from its hiding place before she could.  
  
He held it up in the air. "Yes, the collected works of Abbé Kuenzle, here we are. Property of S. Snape. Says right here on the inside cover." He shut it with a silent flourish. "Well, well, well, Miss Granger. What has the good Abbé Kuenzle been doing under your pillow, I wonder?"  
  
"Catching up on some necessary sleep, I guess. Must be hard work being a famous mediwizard. The light was probably too strong in here for him so he must have crawled under the pillow for some peace." Hermione fixed him with an innocent stare. "That's what I think, Professor."  
  
Snape stared at her for one, long, instant and wondered if he'd heard correctly. Slowly he blinked. His shoulders started to shake and then he began to laugh.  
  
The eyes he brought up to face Hermione's face about ten seconds later were full of mirth. "Since when was sarcasm contagious, Miss Granger?"  
  
"I don't know, Professor. Perhaps we should ask the good Abbé Kuenzle."  
  
"Are you suggesting sarcasm is an infectious disease?"  
  
"You can't deny I've come down with a bad case these holidays, Professor. There must be something in the air here."  
  
"Yes, a nice little germ, socially transmitted and totally untreatable."  
  
Not bad, he thought. His conversational tendencies seemed to be rubbing off on her. It made her quite a pleasant companion, actually. There was nothing he couldn't stand more than someone deliberately trying to be nice and make a good impression. Sharp wit was far better. Or even a little bit of rudeness, since it was clear that the person using it wasn't intimidated by him. (He could have made conversation much less daunting for his interlocutors by making an effort to be nice himself, but Severus had never felt the need to ever apply that term to his person. Nice was for Hufflepuffs, anyway.)  
  
"If it's totally untreatable, what am I going to do? Is my condition going to get worse?"  
  
"Definitely," he said gravely. "It has all the characteristics of a chronic case. I can only suggest that you learn to live with it."  
  
"Will I infect anyone else?"  
  
The sneer returned. "Considering the people in your House, I highly doubt it. The Head Boy probably won't even recognise the symptoms – speaking of Head Boy, are you sure McGonagall was serious? I have a hard time imagining your friend Mr Weasely as Head of anything, unless it's the 'We Hate Potions' club."  
  
"That'd be Neville, wouldn't it?" (No, Ron would be the Head of the 'We Hate Severus Snape' club. Not that she was going to say it.)  
  
Maybe it showed on her face, though, for Snape replied, smiling nastily, "I must concede the point. Mr Weasely would much rather lead a club against me, I presume."  
  
Hermione was surprised by his candour. She looked startled. Snape just shrugged, a slight rustle of flowing black fabric. "I learnt long ago not to care what my students think of me, Miss Granger. As long as they turn up to class, let me take quite a few points off most of them, earn themselves detentions and try not to blow the room up, I am content. Then again, if they didn't turn up I can't say I would be displeased, either – I could just take off points and give out detentions without having to suffer the insufferable gits."  
  
"Oh, you're just whinging," Hermione said. "You know you love teaching. You'd gladly spend hours every day patiently helping all your students with a kind word and a smile for every one."  
  
Snape glared at her in absolute disgust.  
  
"You really like even Neville and Ron deep down, don't you?" She sighed. "Ah, would that I had a vocation as strong as yours. Seeing the love you have of teaching, the joy you get from the eager faces of all the-"  
  
"-terrified little dunderheads-"  
  
"-sweet students clamouring eagerly to-"  
  
"-run screaming from the room-"  
  
"-learn every bit of knowledge that you can give them-"  
  
"-in detention-"  
  
"-when they can – you're really not helping, are you? I'm trying but you're not making this easy."  
  
"Yes, you're trying, alright."  
  
"And you're just plain difficult."  
  
"I commend your powers of observation, Hermione."  
  
"Yes, Severus, I'm really quite clever when I try."  
  
He stiffened and the easy bantering mood between them evaporated. "Miss Granger, I, it is really quite inappropriate, that is to say-"  
  
"You mean we can bicker like anything but 'Severus' is inappropriate? Sorry, then, Professor Snape. It wasn't intended."  
  
Hermione leant across and snatched the textbook from his unresponsive hands. She opened it across her lap and grabbed up her notebook and quill.  
  
"Feel free to leave whenever you like, Professor."  
  
She scratched the quill viciously across her page. It left a furrow, but the ink had long dried. Hermione swore and reached for the inkwell.  
  
Her hand closed upon Snape's. She stared coldly at him. "I believe the door is open. May I have my ink now, please?"  
  
"No." He peeled her fingers from the small container and placed it on the table, out of her immediate reach.  
  
"Why not? Isn't the sight of a student doing work a pleasant one?"  
  
"Not when I wish to talk to her, no. Hermione."  
  
"That will be Miss Granger, Professor."  
  
Snape held her gaze without moving. "I think you understand that this behaviour is far beyond the boundaries of a normal teacher-student relationship. I blame myself for not enforcing the rules more stringently. But I felt that as you had recently suffered a bereavement-"  
  
"Yes, that's right, it's all my fault, isn't it?"  
  
"-you would benefit more from someone to talk with rather than a distant professor. And I confess I have found it quite relaxing at times, too. But, Miss Granger, I am aware that this cannot go on anymore. School resumes next week. I will speak to Professor McGonagall about your relocation to the Head Girl's room. No doubt she will be pleased by the thought of you settling in early, and I presume she will arrange something if you still do not wish to tell your friends about the nature of your holidays." Something like a flicker of regret passed across his face. More kindly, he said "I apologise, Miss Granger, but you are aware of the nature of the situation. No doubt you felt the conversation warranted your use of my first name – I realise I let it stray far beyond the confines of normal, appropriate behaviour – but such 'bickering' must cease, even though you are to be Head Girl and would therefore normally enjoy a closer, ah, relationship with your teachers than would be the norm for other students, and-"  
  
"You're babbling, Professor. Severus."  
  
Once again, she saw him flinch. Slowly, Hermione got to her feet and stood in front of him. Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed the Luggage scurrying through the doorway.  
  
"Why are you babbling?" Calm, Hermione, keep calm. She hid her shaking hands behind her back and tried to keep her voice steady.  
  
Snape looked desperately towards the doorway. But the luggage, bless its little wooden heart, had pushed the door firmly shut when it had left. Most likely it was sitting outside the door until Hermione told it otherwise.  
  
"Did you train that thing?"  
  
She shook her head, smiled slightly. "No, it takes it upon itself to anticipate my wishes."  
  
"You wished for it to chase your Head of House?"  
  
"Don't try to change the subject." Hermione fixed him with a level gaze, trying to fathom his hooded expression. "Why were you so lost for words?"  
  
"I believe I came up with quite a few words under the circumstances, you can hardly deem that to be lost for words!"  
  
She smiled a bit more. "Under what circumstances would those be, Severus?"  
  
"Please, let's end this conversation now, Hermione. You don't want to carry this any further."  
  
"You're just a teensy bit desperate there, aren't you? Why?"  
  
Gently, Severus brushed an errant curl away from her face. "Please, Hermione," he said softly.  
  
"Why?" she repeated in a voice equally as soft.  
  
"Let's just say that I am as guilty of inappropriate behaviour as you, only I would be far more were this conversation to continue. Despite the sad circumstances that led to your coming here these holidays, I feel it would not be inaccurate to say that they have not been all bad. Have they?"  
  
"No."  
  
"But school itself is – has to be – much different." He let his hand drop. A mischievous look started to creep onto his sombre face. "If it's any consolation, you bicker like an excellent fishwife."  
  
"So do you. Skinned any good trout lately?"  
  
"Miss Granger!"  
  
"I'm sorry, too. Severus. I've always thought of you as a terrible git, so I have to be just as bad myself now, since I've really enjoyed your company these past weeks."  
  
He stayed silent.  
  
"Just because you're horrible, and ugly, and nasty, and cruel to my entire House doesn't mean we can't still be friends."  
  
"So says the fishwife who's just confessed she believes herself to be equally as bad as my lowly self."  
  
Hermione snorted. A reluctant grin appeared. "Point, conceded."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"But I have come to consider you a friend. And, Severus, I don't have many friends, so forgive me if I seem a little reluctant to let one go just because school is resuming? I promise, I will do my best to detest you on all occasions."  
  
Quietly, he laughed, and his hand crept up to rest on her shoulder. "Has anyone ever told you that you're considerably unusual?"  
  
"Mum and Dad."  
  
His smile vanished. "I didn't mean that."  
  
"I know. I understand."  
  
"Well…" He nodded thoughtfully. His professorial demeanour returned. "All the proprieties must still be observed on all occasions, however, and all proper respect must always be shown. By both yourself, and that tame suitcase of yours."  
  
"Snape, I simply said I didn't want to lose your friendship, I wasn't proposing marriage!"  
  
Snape started violently. He choked and tried to turn it into a cough. Flinch number three, she observed with amusement.  
  
"Of course." He inclined his head stiffly. "Anyone who thinks that I would willingly shackle myself to such an argumentative, screeching fishwife needs a visit to St. Mungo's."  
  
"Likewise. In reverse." Hermione turned away and rapped on the door. "Alright, Luggage, I'm going to open the door now. Stand clear."  
  
But the corridor, when revealed, was empty. The Luggage was long gone.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer/Author's Note: Luggage & the Potterverse don't belong to me, as usual! The reference to Sense and Sensibility comes about since I've just finished watching it for the umpteenth time. Alan Rickman is as incredible as ever. (After that I went through my other Rickman videos, Truly Madly Deeply, The Barchester Chronicles, and Die Hard. All wonderful – but I enjoyed Barchester (1982) much more now, after the HP movie, since his character in that, one Obadiah Slope, is incredibly close to our dear Slytherin in manner, attitude, cunning and nastiness! But I digress. I am supposed to be writing a HP story, not raving about the remarkable acting talents (and Snapeish characters) of Alan Rickman. Though it is difficult not to. :) Quite difficult.)  
  
  
  
Note #2: Abbé Kuenzle was a Swiss herbalist of, I think, several centuries ago. I don't have my reference text here to check dates, but he was responsible for quite a bit of work in and on herbalism that is still referred to today. 


	13. An Auspicious Start to School

Chapter Thirteen: An Auspicious Start to School  
  
As soon as she stepped onto Platform 9¾, Hermione saw Harry and the Weasleys. Both Harry and Ron were a full head taller than the sixth year Ginny, who clung happily onto Harry's arm, chattering away furiously to two older versions of Ron with identical jumpers. Gred and Forge had come to see the 'young 'uns' off.  
  
They saw Hermione before the others. "Hey, Head Girl," one yelled. They both waved at her. Rolling her eyes, she dodged through the crowd to join them. "Hello, you lot! Holy Cricket, Ginny, you're brown! I thought Romania was supposed to be gloomy! Harry, Ron, did you have a good holidays?"  
  
"It is-"  
  
"Alright, we saw a few local quidditch matches, would you believe they play by different rules?"  
  
"-those two decided I could do with a suntan sundae…"  
  
"A what?" That was something Hermione had never heard of.  
  
Ginny grimaced good naturedly. "A suntan sundae. The latest crazy idea from the twins. I've only just gotten back to a reasonable colour. I spent most of the holidays looking like a lobster."  
  
"Well, you were the one who was complaining you weren't going to get a tan!"  
  
"We decided to help you out a bit!"  
  
"See? Brothers, can't train 'em, never know what to do with 'em."  
  
"Ginny, that was uncalled for. Hello, Hermione dear, how were your holidays?" Hermione smiled at Mrs Weasley and accepted a quick hug.  
  
"Not too bad," she replied.  
  
"C'mon you three, let's grab a carriage to ourselves," Harry interrupted, steering both girlfriend and two closest friends towards the train. Molly Weasley demanded another last minute hug from each of them before one of the twins pressed a small wrapped parcel into Ron's hands. "Don't forget this, little brother."  
  
"No. I won't." He shoved it quickly into his pocket and nodded as he followed the others onto the cherry red express.  
  
  
  
About fifteen or twenty minutes later, Ron was patting Hermione's arm solicitously and giving her sympathetic looks. Hermione privately thought he looked more like he'd eaten too many chocolate frogs than anything else, but she kept that to herself.  
  
She'd decided to tell her friends most of the story of her holidays. Ginny and Ron, who had grown up in a magical household, wore identical expressions of horror when she explained why she'd ended up at Hogwarts. Harry looked understanding. Choosing her words with care, Hermione left out nearly all of the Snapeish detail from her story. "He brought me to school," she said, shrugging, "He disarmed my father when Professor Dumbledore brought my parents to Hogwarts, and he threatened him a bit. Professor McGonagall fussed over me, you know what she's like-"  
  
"Ah, no, but I'm not exactly her favourite person." Ron, sheepishly.  
  
"And that's about it. My stuff's already all there, of course, but I've always felt the train ride to be the best part of the start of the year, except the Sorting of course, and getting our timetables, and really I wanted to tell you three in private. I don't want anyone else to know. It's none of their business."  
  
"I want you to know we're here for you, Mione, if you need anyone to talk to. That was a dreadful thing to happen! I can't believe your parents did that! Doesn't it hurt?"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Of course it does! But if you can't change something, you have to move forward and adapt to it." Snape had said that. "I don't know if I'll ever not feel regretful about it, since I still love them and I kind of hope they still love me, somehow, but there's nothing I can do about it so going to pieces any more would be ridiculous."  
  
"How could they be so bloody stupid?"  
  
"I can see their point of view, Ron. I'm okay with it. Honest."  
  
"Well, if you're sure that you're alright…"  
  
"Positive. C'mon, I don't want to miss the first glimpse of the school."  
  
Hermione got up and looked out the window. Thoughtfully, she decided that that had gone rather well. She felt almost awkward talking to her friends now, at least knowing how much she hadn't told them. A wistful smile crossed her face. While she was looking forward to classes starting again, these last holidays had been a lot more fun than she had ever thought. They just about tied with those before her third year, when she'd gone to France with her parents. Maybe they were even better, since she hadn't had the Luggage then.  
  
That was the one other major thing that she hadn't mentioned. Of course, it was going to come out soon, but how could you tell someone you owned a homicidal suitcase? And one with such a sterling reputation? Hermione would have been surprised that Dumbledore didn't seem to mind the Luggage being at Hogwarts, when it always seemed to cause so much trouble, if she hadn't heard him say he knew the trunk himself. And she'd seen it treat him with grudging respect. Obviously, in the hierarchy of travelling accessories, school Headmasters ranked higher than caretakers, lower than potions professors, much higher than deputy headmistresses, and about the same as gamekeepers. And all of them ranked much lower than a seventh year student. Even she came in second to a six-week-old kitten.  
  
It wasn't something one could start to explain in the last few minutes of a train journey, that was for certain. The complicated nature of the luggage's relations would just have to wait until she saw how the three Gryffindors fitted into the spectrum.  
  
"Hermione, look! There it is!" Hermione looked along the length of Ginny's finger and there, sure enough, was Hogwarts coming right around the corner. A warm feeling started in the pit of her stomach and suffused right through her.  
  
In a dreamy voice, she said "I can't believe this is our last year here. This is our last trip to school…"  
  
"Yeah, ours." Ron rolled his eyes. "You can take the train every year once you're a teacher."  
  
"Who said I was going to become a teacher?"  
  
"Who didn't? Mione, you're born to be a teacher. Everyone knows that you're after McGonagall's job."  
  
"Oh, really, Ron," Hermione sighed. She was really rather relieved when they had to board the carriages to take them the last part of the way to school.  
  
  
  
But she was nervous by the time they walked into the Great Hall. From the carriages to the castle, she had seen no suitcase. Students milled around like black robed locusts, but nowhere among them lurked a trunk with hairy little feet.  
  
"Who are you looking for?" Harry asked in a low voice.  
  
Hermione forced a false smile onto her face. "Oh, no-one." Well, that was technically true.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really, I'm not looking for anyone."  
  
The Sorting Ceremony passed her in a daze. Hermione's attention only forgot the absent, bloodthirsty Luggage when Dumbledore rose to his feet and gestured for silence.  
  
There was not a pair of eyes in the Hall that did not fall upon his face.  
  
"Once again, we are here to start another year at Hogwarts," he began, smiling broadly, "and once again I commend you for arranging to arrive here all at once. Most remarkable. Quite convenient of you, such a lovely gesture, I'm really glad I thought of it. Makes my job so much easier."  
  
"Balmy, I tell you," muttered Ron.  
  
"Every year, two seventh year students are selected to lead the school, both as an example to lower years and as people any student can turn to. I am happy to say that this year, we have selected Miss Hermione Granger, of Gryffindor House, and Mr Ronald Weasley, also of Gryffindor, as Head Girl and Boy. Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, if you would come to the front to receive your badges? Thank you."  
  
"I think we have a problem," Hermione whispered, looking down. She'd jumped up when Dumbledore made the announcement. Ron had fainted.  
  
"Well, poke him!" Dean Thomas suggested.  
  
In desperation, Hermione did. Hard. Ron didn't move.  
  
"Think of something!"  
  
"I just did!"  
  
"Something else!"  
  
"Tip a glass of water over him," Ginny offered, and the pitcher was handed down the table. Not wanting to waste time, Hermione upended the entire pitcher. Ron woke up spluttering.  
  
"Is there something wrong?" Dumbledore enquired in an innocent voice.  
  
"No, everything's fine," Hermione called out, and half-dragged Ron out of his seat. "C'mon, don't make me look like an idiot! We have to go up to Dumbledore!"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"To get our badges, silly! Do you think he's going to throw them over here?"  
  
"It'd be nice. Mione, why'd you have to drown me?" Ron looked at her pathetically.  
  
"You fainted, did you think it was your B.O.?"  
  
  
  
"You know, the queerest thing happened to me this morning," Ron told her almost a week later as they walked to breakfast. Their rooms were no longer in Gryffindor tower, but in the same section of the school that held the rooms of those teachers who were not House Heads.  
  
"Really, what?"  
  
"It's going to sound stupid…"  
  
"C'mon, tell me."  
  
"I opened the door and there was this…this suitcase sitting outside my door. Only it was standing. It had feet."  
  
"Where did it go?" Hermione stopped in mid-step and turned on Ron, staring up at him. "What did it do? Did it say anything?"  
  
"Hermione, suitcases don't say anything," he said puzzledly. Gently, as if he weren't exactly sure of her sanity.  
  
"This one does," she replied grimly. "What did it do? It didn't hurt you, did it?"  
  
"No, of course not! It was just a suitcase, Mione, nothing else."  
  
She laughed, a shade wryly. "Um, not exactly. Go on."  
  
"It stood there. I took a step forward, I wanted to see if it had a name on it or something, and its lid jerked. It made this funny vicious sound, like its lock was grating. I went back inside and shut the door. When I opened it again a couple of minutes later, the suitcase was gone. It was just bloody weird. I wonder who the thing belongs to, anyway?"  
  
"I don't," said Hermione.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Wonder, that is."  
  
"Mione, sometimes you're pretty weird too."  
  
"Thank you for noticing."  
  
They walked the rest of the way in silence.  
  
During breakfast Ron kept giving her funny looks. "There's something she's not telling me," he confided to Harry in a low whisper. His best friend shrugged. "Maybe she's just out of sorts," he whispered back. "You know Mione. The NEWTs are at the end of the year, that's like next week according to her!"  
  
"Yeah, it's just…"  
  
"Don't let it get to you, she's probably just distracted."  
  
Hermione, who had heard their entire conversation, couldn't agree more.  
  
She spent two slices of toast and a glass of orange juice trying to catch Snape's eye. But he was involved in a furious disagreement with Professor McGonagall over something to do with House quidditch teams, and didn't notice. When he stormed out of the Hall in exasperation, with an exaggerated flourish of robes, she assumed McGonagall must have won a point. But it gave her a chance to speak to him, so Hermione quickly jumped up and pushed her plate back.  
  
"I have to get to the library, I've just remembered something I have to put in my Tranfigurations essay!"  
  
"Ugh, essays," Ron said, and made a face. "Don't get too involved, we've got Charms first, remember."  
  
"I won't forget," Hermione promised, and darted from the room.  
  
Ron looked helplessly at Harry. "I'm telling you, there's something she's not telling me."  
  
"Yes, like the page numbers and the quotes she's going to put in her essay," Ginny interrupted. "Stop being such an idiot, Ron, and pass the marmalade."  
  
Hermione was completely out of breath by the time she spied the Potions Professor at the other end of the hallway. Why did he have to have such long legs, anyway? It was almost impossible to catch up with him!  
  
"Professor Snape! Can I talk to you a moment?"  
  
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Like he wanted nothing more than to deduct points from the Head Girl, he crossed his arms and waited.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Professor." Hermione held up a hand while she got her breath back.  
  
Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Running in the corridor, Miss Granger? Tut, tut. Hardly appropriate behaviour for the Head Girl…you're supposed to be setting an example for the younger students."  
  
"I am!"  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Well, I didn't say it was a good one." Hermione then looked worried. "Professor, I haven't seen the luggage since school started."  
  
"Maybe it's become shy. Though the likelihood of that…"  
  
"According to Ron, it threatened him this morning."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It ambushed outside his room and gnashed its lock at him. I somehow get the feeling that Ron isn't very high on its list of favourite people, Professor."  
  
"Perhaps it has a grudge against him… Once again, I find I cannot fault your case's judgement, Miss Granger. An excellent judge of character. Quite a beautiful intellect. Do you think it would consider taking seventh year Potions? I could assign it to work with Mr Weasley."  
  
"Do that and I'll switch all the labels around on the ingredients in your storeroom!" Hermione threatened.  
  
"You forget the door is locked and I have the only key."  
  
"You forget I have the Luggage."  
  
"Not at the moment, though."  
  
"I had wondered if it might be at Hagrid's, but-"  
  
"It's not?"  
  
She shook her head miserably. "I went to see him two nights ago and he said he hasn't seen it since the first day back, either."  
  
"I – Miss Granger, running in the corridor is supposed to be beneath you. Ten points from Gryffindor!"  
  
Hermione didn't need to turn around to sense McGonagall's disapproval. "Severus, you can't go around taking points from the Head Girl for running! That's ridiculous. She probably has a class to go to. It would be much worse if she were late!"  
  
"Why, is she required to actually teach the class?" Snape sneered coldly. "I most certainly can take points from the Head Girl, and I already have. Rest assured, Minerva, if I see the Head Boy running in the hallways I will deduct a similar amount of points from him as well!" He stalked off.  
  
McGonagall lay a light hand on Hermione's shoulder and glared after Snape's retreating back. "Never mind him, Miss Granger. He's just in a nasty mood because I've booked the quidditch field for the Gryffindor practice match tonight and he wanted it for his House. Sometimes I can't stand that man."  
  
"Oh, I detest him on all occasions," Hermione said solemnly.  
  
Snape's back gave a snort of quiet laughter.  
  
Despite still not knowing the whereabouts of the maddening trunk, Hermione felt better than she had all day. It was with a much lighter heart that she set off for the library.  
  
However, her good mood would not last much longer. Luggage, without the Mistress' knowledge, had made other plans. 


	14. Sir Luggage and the Holy Vedndetta

**Chapter Fourteen: Sir Luggage and the Holy Vendetta  
  
**

Though Hermione didn't rank herself highest on the luggage's list of favourite people, luggage did.  No kitten (and Lisa was far from any ordinary kitten, as far as it was concerned!) could outplace its Mistress.

Hermione would have been touched, if she had known of this sentiment.

But sentient suitcases, no matter how intelligent, have no words to express their feelings.  They have only actions.  

Thus the luggage chose to prove its devotion to the Mistress by defending her honour.  

Like any medieval knight, any gallant defender of a lady's chastity, her cherished person, Luggage abhorred the idea of a lady being pushed into a match that didn't suit her.  And that wicked furry creature, that cruel attacker of suitcases, the woman called McGonagall, did so scheme to see the Mistress shackled to the creature called Ron.  So had the Mistress admitted to it, in a moment of deep despair.  

Luggage had no idea what a Ron was, except that the Mistress had said she wasn't interested in him, and he didn't like cats.  This seemed to show an intent to harm Lisa (though hardly chauvinistic, chivalry was embedded deep within its woodwork).  Its reasoning was sound; the Ron-creature, in collusion with the vicious McGonagall, strove to steal away the innocence of one of its favourite ladies and hurt the other.  And Luggage was nothing if not fiercely protective of those it cared about.

Thus to slay the dragon, our wooden knight sought the aid of a damsel in distress and the stage was set.

And the Mistress, to whom this entire operation came back to, still knew nothing of the brewing storm.

Severus Snape had once remarked that the only major fault the kitten Mona Lisa possessed was a tendency to trust where she should not.  By this he meant the luggage (though Hermione did wonder if he were not indulging in a bout of self-recrimination, and watched him carefully to see he was alright).  But he meant nothing more than what he said. 

And he was more right than she'd thought.

Lisa would follow the trunk anywhere.  No words of encouragement were needed; the luggage, unable to supply these, settled on looking pleading and nudging the door of Snape's living-room in a promise of adventure.  

The kitten, who had her paws around a discarded quill, looked disgruntled at the thought of perusing the corridors at a time when all decent kittens – and suitcases – are far away in the land of milk and catnip, but the luggage would not be dissuaded.  Eventually, she left her feathered toy and the comfort of her bed and followed, padding silently along.  

Curiosity might not kill the cat, but still it could get her into all kinds of trouble.  But luggage was safe.  Following luggage was alright.  No one could hurt her when luggage was around.

Ron Weasley wasn't much happier about the hour.  He had just finished a detention with Snape for being very late to class, perhaps the only professor who wouldn't listen to the reason why he was 'unavoidably detained'.  

"Perhaps trying to discover a way with which you can cheat on today's test, Mr Weasley," the Potions Master had sneered.  "Thirty points from Gryffindor and detention.  See me after class."  He was in a particularly nasty frame of mind as someone had broken into his storeroom the previous night and damaged all the ingredients on the bottom shelves.  Possibly it was Potter and Weasley trying to steal something, he reasoned, their natural clumsiness destroying his precious components in the process.

He hadn't done anything! thought Ron in aggravation as he sat down at his desk.  Though with Snape, there didn't have to have been a crime committed before the non-Slytherin student was picked on, so maybe he was just in a (normally) bad mood.

With similar grouchy grace he had received news of, and completed, his detention.  It consisted of trying to recover and sort out everything that had been damaged.  Snape had watched him closely the entire time, sneering broadly, as though he blamed him personally for the incident.  Ron only wished that he _had done it._

If Snape had been thinking, instead of blindingly furious about the loss of stock, he would have seen faint footprints in some of the spilled ingredients.  Barefoot footprints.  And marks on the shelves, where something very solid and heavy had run into them about a foot from the ground.

That something very solid and heavy had also managed to make Ron late for class by snapping at him in the hallway, blocking the way to the dungeons.  He'd been running late already, as he had to come from a divination class, unlike Hermione and Harry, who both had arithmancy nearby instead.

Then the suitcase that he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined outside his room backed him into a corner and wagged its lid at him until Snape would be extremely ticked about his lateness to class, then sauntered off in the opposite direction.

Ron's thoughts were on avoiding the suitcase when he set off to return to Gryffindor tower.  He entertained dark thoughts of setting it on fire with his wand (maybe he could get Hermione to teach him the spell?), or floating it at arms length all the way out of Hogwarts.

It is perhaps indicative of Ron's character that he didn't immediately consider going to a teacher about the curious trunk that he kept seeing.  Many others would have, but even becoming Head Boy hadn't given Ron enough faith in his own judgement to run to a professor with a story about a metal bound wooden suitcase on lots of little feet that bared its teeth at him.

But when he saw the kitten sitting in the entranceway to a disused passage, looking helplessly around it, he couldn't walk on by.  Perhaps Hermione would know what to do with it?  The luggage had been right, Ron _wasn't particularly fond of cats, but he didn't want to catch this one and consume it for a midnight snack.  However, the differences between his and the luggage's reasoning were irrelevant, for when the kitten turned and scampered down the thin corridor, he still followed._

And that was all that was required.

Hermione, for her part, was attempting to infuse some order into her notes about the Photo-Quills.  Snape had hinted that if they could refine the invention (and that included a more aesthetically pleasing structure than the one it presently possessed), and she wrote up a cohesive, detailed report describing the process, she could patent it.  And possibly make a fortune, the implication went unsaid.

Diligently, she bent over her notes.  The quill they had come up with bore little resemblance to the dicto-quill upon which it had been based.  Its most curious feature was that it could draw both ends.  One was a tapered bamboo nib, the other a raven feather, the two bits being joined in the middle by judicious transfiguration.  They were yet to test it on the mirror (which had once again been moved into an empty room as Madam Pince had complained about the noise), but it had already produced several beautiful portraits of random subjects.  Looking at the one of herself, Hermione suspected a certain trend to eloquence and hoped it wouldn't affect their historical work.  Snape, though, swore that it was a perfect likeness, and only smirked a little when he said it.  

Sometimes she didn't quite know what to do about him.

Best to put off the whole problem until she had the time to worry about it.  But she found herself strangely pleased that she could call him friend; the idea of a friend she could discuss academic things with without sending them to sleep held its own peculiar thrill.  Then, of course, there was the luggage, like a dark secret they kept between them.  She still hadn't gotten around to telling the other Gryffindors about her suitcase.  

While Hermione worked, Harry was valiantly trying, once again, to decipher the Dialogues of Gregory the Great with Neville Longbottom.  A medieval pontiff who had had the added benefit of being a wizard, he had in the late 6th and early 7th century reformed the Christian Church and defended Rome from the Lombards.  Now he, and his writings on the true nature of so-called demonic possessions, were the topic of their first History of Magic essay for the year.  Hermione, of course, had already finished hers; she was thinking of doing an extended research project on medieval magic if Professor Binns would allow it.  (That, or the healing work of Abbè Kuenzle – though explaining how she had a rare source text that wasn't in the Hogwarts library would take a bit of work!)  The borders between the magical and muggle communities in medieval times had been almost non-existent, and many powerful figures such as Gregory and Clovis had gotten away with using magic and ascribing it to divine intervention.

Her lips tugged upwards in a smile.  Hearing Harry and Neville so deeply involved in their work was worth the promise she had made herself not to intervene or admonish them for having left the assignment too late.  

"We could probably mention the servant girl story," suggested the latter, looking nervous.  

"The what?"

"Um, you know, the one about the girl who swallowed a demon, on the cabbage leaves."  
"Lettuce leaves," Hermione corrected automatically, then suppressed a sigh.  So much for promises.

Harry rolled his eyes.  "Why don't you tell us, 'Mione?"  
"Well, it goes that there was this servant girl who swallowed a devil, since she'd eaten some lettuce leaves from the convent garden and then suddenly felt that there was a demon inside her.  An exorcist was called, who exhorted the demon to be gone, but the 'unwelcome guest' excused himself, saying that he'd been quietly sitting on the lettuce when the girl came and swallowed him.  He was duly expelled."  
"Ah," said Harry intelligently.

"Now," Hermione continued, warming to her topic, "the girl was, of course, a muggle, and the reaction of many muggle historians has been to dramatise such instances to the point where 'possessions' were commonplace and all of assuredly evil intent.  Pope Gregory refutes that with cases like this one, and goes on to point out that many of these supposed demons were merely ghosts who had been attracted by the aesthetic monastic life, and became acquainted with certain muggles under, ah, less than desirable circumstances.  There's several other similar cases in his works.  It's believed that these occurrences, such examples of concentrated, pig-headed muggle superstition, frustrated him to such a degree that he decided to revise the Church in order to create an edifice in which all beings, living and non-living, could study and pursue their beliefs free from persecution.  In doing so he consolidated the power of the Church and it was to Gregory that the task fell of defending Rome against barbarian invasions.  When the emperor, who was, by the way, a muggle, and so couldn't understand the basic reasoning of some of Gregory's policies and tactics, nor how he managed to implement them, implied that he himself was using the power of the devil, Gregory replied that-" she hunted through her own History notebook for the reference "'My pious lord may think all the evil he wants of me, provided that, for the sake of the usefulness of the Republic and for the cause of Italy's deliverance, he will not listen to every one who comes along, but will deign to believe _facts rather than __words.'  But anyway, that was all in Professor Binns' lecture, and there's a good textbook by Batiffol in the library.  You can read the rest yourself."  
  
Hermione put down her notebook and finally realised that the entire force of seventh years (and some of the sixth years) present were taking notes.  She blushed slightly and picked up her quill-work._

"Thanks, Hermione," said Dean cheerfully, signing his name on top of the notes he'd just written.  "I don't know how I'd pass without you!"  Others nodded assent.

Feeling a little grumpy that the others couldn't be bothered doing their own work (and more than a little disappointed that no-one else shared her passion for medieval history), Hermione resumed her own work.  Harry shot her an understanding look for which she was grateful.  Deliberately he started copying quotations out of the textbook, and Neville, after another quick glance at his new notes, followed suit.

"Thanks, Hermione," he said shyly, and met her eyes.  A reluctant grin tugged on her mouth.  "That's okay," she said.  "I know you're actually doing your own work, anyway.  I'm happy to help."

"No, really?" asked Harry, mock-surprisedly.  "I thought you hated doing research?"  
"Oh, shut up, Harry."

"Alright, alright.  Can you pass the ink?  Mine's run out on me."  
  


The portrait hole slammed open.  Flying red hair and tangled black robes stumbled through in their haste.  The sixth-year student they comprised looked around frantically.

"Harry!  Hermione!  Hurry, oh, it's dreadful!" Ginny wailed.  She threw herself down beside the table.  "It's Ron!  He's in the hospital wing and it's really, really, bad!"  
  


**Disclaimers/Author's Notes:**

Gregory the Great (c. 540-604 AD) was indeed a real person, and pontiff of Rome from 590-604 AD.  His most famous works include the _Dialogues and the __Pastoral Rule, and he was responsible for defending Rome against barbarian invasion, 'saving' the Church, and the spread of Benedictine monasticism to England.  _

The story of the demonic possession is drawn from the _Dialogues, though I'm sure it's quite obvious what fictional elements I have incorporated!  Gregory's response to the emperor was actually part of a letter written when the Emperor blamed him for pursuing the 'simplistic policy' of entering into negotiations with the Lombard Duke of Spoleto, which was the only way he was able to save Rome from being sacked.  _

As might have been obvious, medieval history is an interest of mine and I encountered Gregory in the course of study.  He wasn't actually going to turn up in this story but it seems that he, like the luggage, has a mind of his own.

The references I have used for information on Gregory and his medieval activities (those ones I didn't make up), in case anyone is interested, are as follows:

Batiffol, English Ed., pp. 244-5, quoted in Davis (Hermione has read far more of this text than I have!)

Davis, R.H.C., _A History of Medieval Europe from Constantine to St. Louis, 2nd Ed. London, Longman, 1988; Chapter Four: "The Church and the Papacy"_

Seligmann, Kurt, _The History of Magic, New York, Pantheon Books Inc., 1948._

And, of course, the _Dialogues of Gregory himself, quoted in both Davis and Seligmann._

**Apart from that… the luggage is Terry Pratchett's; Hogwarts and all its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.  **

I can't think of anything else I need to say.  Thank you to everything who is reading this and I hope you enjoy it!  Look out for the Luggage's first adventure in the Potterverse, _Wizards and Worldgates, (yes, a shameless plug!) ch. 1 of which is already up.  I'll update soon.  Most importantly, I haven't filed it under a character section, as there's no category for luggage!  (Damn!)  Should I put it under Hermione/Severus as it's a prequel to a HG/SS fic, or just leave it as it is???  
  
Please let me know!_


	15. Revelations, Ruminations

Chapter Fifteen: Revelations and Ruminations  
  
Hermione skidded down the corridor behind Harry, both of them a few paces behind the absolutely frantic Ginny.  
  
Luggage.threats.Ron. Luggage in hiding. Luggage threatening Ron. Homicidal luggage threatening Ron.  
  
Mrs Norris.  
  
"Oh, shit," she said aloud.  
  
How to put it? Harry, Ginny, the reason Ron's in the hospital wing used to hold my clothing?  
  
Not quite. This would take a little bit of work.  
  
Shit.  
  
"Is he going to be alright?" Harry asked in a hushed voice. Madam Pomfrey nodded. Worry lines were etched on her brow. "He's been worked over, though a little strangely if I do say so, but yes, Mr Weasley shouldn't have to spend too much time here. He'll mend in a few days and he'll be fine."  
  
Hermione left out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.  
  
"How bad was it?"  
  
"A broken leg, twisted ankle, extensive bruising and cracked ribs and collarbone." All three winced in sympathy.  
  
"I bet it was that git Malfoy!" Harry. Ginny sniffed loudly. "How could he? Just because he's not Head-Boy!"  
  
"Knowing Malfoy, that's all the reason he'd need." Harry put a comforting arm around her shoulders and the red-head leaned against it. "Then again, there wasn't any chance that Malfoy could've got it anyway, with his shocking marks in charms."  
  
Even Hermione had to admit that the extra effort Ron had been putting into his work over the past year had certainly paid off. His grades in everything except potions had risen remarkably, which just went to show what he could do if he tried. Six years late, of course, she mused, but he must have finally realised that he needed to work a little harder in order to get the same grades Bill and Charlie (and even the twins, though they'd never really worked!) had received. And if he were to get into Auror training at the end of the year like he wanted, well, he needed above average grades.  
  
"It wasn't Malfoy," she said abruptly.  
  
The other two stared at her.  
  
"Well, of course it was, Hermione," said Harry. "Who else would it have been?"  
  
"Not a who. A what." She paused, drew in breath. "A what?"  
  
"A suitcase, to be exact."  
  
"Okay, now you've lost me. What kind of suitcase does that?" Ginny threw up her hands. Hermione felt herself reddening. "Um, my one, actually."  
  
Harry was staring at her as though she'd grown an extra head. "Your.suitcase.was responsible for bashing up Ron? Um, no offence, Mione, but why don't I believe that?"  
  
"Because you're prejudiced against Malfoy?"  
  
"Mione, I sincerely hope you're not saying that you like him."  
  
"Like him? Like, how do you mean?" Under his close scrutiny her blush deepened.  
  
Harry looked even more shocked. "You like him. Really like him. Don't you?"  
  
"No! I'm just saying that you think it's his fault because you don't like him."  
  
"And you think it isn't his fault because."  
  
".because I know who is responsible. The luggage."  
  
"Great, the luggage. Well, where do we find this luggage?" Ginny asked sarcastically.  
  
"Um, I don't know. But honestly, it's a suitcase, with feet, and it bites. If you don't believe me, ask Professor Dumbledore. He's well acquainted with it."  
  
"It's alright, Mione, I believe you," Harry said heavily. The mention of Dumbledore had, as she'd expected, erased his doubts. That, and, of course, six years of living in a world where anything was possible if you knew the right bit of Latin.  
  
"What's so funny?" he asked after a moment. Hermione was fighting a chesire grin.  
  
"I was just thinking that you could also ask Filch. Or haven't either of you noticed that Mrs Norris isn't drifting around the castle anymore?"  
  
They stared at her. "You're right," Ginny said slowly, "I haven't seen her at all this year. That is strange."  
  
"The luggage has something to do with that, I guess?" asked Harry curiously.  
  
Hermione's smile blossomed. "Oh, yes," she said with fervour.  
  
"I hate to break up this sweet little chat, but you're blocking the doorway."  
  
Prof. Severus Snape sneered himself into the room, exuding malice, and holding in each hand a flask of a different brightly coloured liquid.  
  
"Poppy? Your skel-e-grow and swedish bitters."  
  
The medi-witch took each bottle with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Severus, I'm sorry about the short notice but I didn't realise I was out of stock until I got a patient, tonight." With a jerk of her head she indicated the prone form of Ron Weasley on the nearest bed.  
  
Snape's lips thinned. "Ah, that explains the fan club, then. Tell me. Did our dearest Head Boy fall off his broom?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Or, perhaps, he decided to go duelling with Longbottom."  
  
"Actually, sir, I think luggage was hungry."  
  
Snape snorted and a slow smirk twisted his thin mouth. "Well, well, well," he drawled. "Once again I find myself in the position of commending your case's intelligence. I wonder if it would consider hiring out its services. It could be a valuable asset to the community."  
  
Hermione glared at him, though it lacked some force. "I hardly think attacking one of my friends qualifies it for the Order of Merlin, professor."  
  
"Really? Perhaps you're right. He's still breathing. An award for special services to the school and another chance when he's awake."  
  
Harry interjected. "You.you knew about this, this luggage?" Surprise was written on his face. So was poorly-concealed distaste, though that was usually a standard whenever he found himself in a conversation with Snape he couldn't avoid.  
  
"No, Mr Potter, I make a habit out of reading the minds of all my students," Snape drawled in reply, smirking as Harry's stare turned poisonous for a moment, before it was redirected towards the floor.  
  
Hermione was thoughtful. How could it have been managed? Then she wondered. "Madame Pomfrey, where was Ron found?"  
  
The medi-witch stuck her head out of her office and said "In the main corridor. He dragged himself up from the dungeons and a third-year girl saw him and helped him here. Then I sent her off to find one of the older Gryffindors, to let his friends know."  
  
"And she found me near the portrait," Ginny added.  
  
"It must have got him just after he finished detention with me." Snape nodded again. "Yes, that would fit."  
  
"It must have been hovering outside our classes, then, to find out when he'd have detention and ambush him."  
  
Hermione shook her head, something about that already bothering her. "No, Harry, how could it know that he'd get detention?"  
  
Snape let out a loud groan and put a hand to his head. "By orchestrating it, of course. And to think I blamed Weasley and Potter."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked quickly.  
  
"My stores," he replied, voice muffled.  
  
"Stores? What stores? What happened?"  
  
Ginny and Harry exchanged an equally puzzled look. Not only was Snape not being nasty, he was positively communicative and co-operative! In a very Snape-ish kind of way, of course. And Hermione was acting as though that were normal. Strange, very strange.  
  
"What stores, Se-Sir?"  
  
"What ones do you think, Miss Granger?" He emphasised the name. Belatedly Hermione realised that she'd almost slipped. Big time. There was no way either of her friends would believe there wasn't anything going on between her and Snape, then! A small part of her mind said it wouldn't mind if there was. She told it to be quiet. Quickly.  
  
"Someone broke into the Potions storeroom and damaged quite a few important ingredients, as though they'd been hurriedly looking for something, or as though the shelves had been shaken."  
  
"Or knocked."  
  
"By luggage. Yes, only the lowest shelves were touched." He raised his head, and his eyes, which met Hermione's, were filled with evil glee.  
  
Not the expression she'd been expecting, certainly.  
  
"Professor?"  
  
He raised an insolent, insouciant eye-brow. "Goodnight, Miss Granger. Weasley. Potter."  
  
In a swirl of robes, Snape stalked from the room, leaving Hermione thoughtful and the others still puzzled.  
  
"He was almost pleasant. It must be something he ate," Harry said finally. Ginny gave Hermione a quizzical look and said nothing, but the faintest hints of a smile were tugging at her mouth.  
  
She asked sweetly, "So, Hermione, what exactly did happen to Mrs Norris?"  
  
An hour or so later, just after curfew, Severus Snape stalked through the Hogwarts grounds, lost in thought.  
  
He found the whole concept of the walk therapeutic in a mind-numbing way. Whenever he needed to think, or relax, he usually ended up doing the rounds. Occasionally he had the chance to spring students in various tangles of limbs and guilty expressions. That was always guaranteed to improve his mood.  
  
Currently he was mulling over the curiosity so inaccurately termed the luggage. Luggage, yes, suitcase, yes, but they were hardly labels to describe it. It had a temperament he was used to seeing in the students of his House, but it also had two rows of very hairy little feet and bleached mahogany teeth. It had a nasty looking latch. It also, most importantly, seemed to have a very jealous disposition.  
  
No doubt Weasley had aroused its protective instincts by drooling around Hermione Granger like a kneazel in heat.  
  
He smirked to himself. The thought of Weasley being done over by a suitcase that came to his knees nearly made all the years of aggravation that the boy had given him worthwhile. Anything, just to think of that irritating brat coming off second-best to something designed to hold clothing.  
  
Yes, there was justice somewhere in the world. Certainly it was worth a few potions ingredients to see this.  
  
His thoughts drifted off the luggage and onto its supposed owner, Hermione Granger. His spirits deflated, ruining the moment.  
  
Miss Granger. Hermione. She had certainly changed in the years that he'd been teaching her, hadn't she?  
  
No longer such a loud, irritating, know-it-all.Still a know-it-all; he doubted anything would ever wipe that from her system, but not so loud, and no more irritating.  
  
Well, except when she deliberately provoked him. But he was justified in snarling at her then; she certainly knew exactly what to say to make him flare up. And he could always manage to provoke her in turn.  
  
Similarly, he felt more like smiling when she was around than when she wasn't. Cheesy, that's what it was. Absolutely, completely and utterly cheesy, but he found himself inordinately pleased by her company in a way far from the 'appropriate' boundaries and distances he liked to set between himself and everyone he interacted with.  
  
He let out a slight groan, and leant against the side wall of the nearest building, one of the greenhouses.  
  
What was it about Hermione Granger that had made him start to think of her so differently from all his other students? Perhaps she was an adult, she was a Gryffindor, she had sauce and pluck and blind courage like most of her house, and she had the intellect to lead him to appreciate her as almost an academic equal, but she was still a student, and, as such, he had a duty of care towards her. In loco parentis. Not the type of thoughts he was beginning to entertain.  
  
He groaned again. Put a hand against his head, rubbed his temples with tired fingers. To hell with the girl, and to hell with him for letting his thinking carry him away. She was a student, not some sort of object for any fantasies he might concoct! (And why on earth was he starting to concoct some now, anyway? He hadn't been close with anyone that way since he had begun teaching!) Even if she did seem to want something she called friendship from him - something he was unaccustomed to giving to any but very few people in his life - even if she did seem to enjoy the arguments they had managed to get into despite themselves, she wasn't prepared for, nor would she be willing to accept, anything more. Disgust radiated through his thoughts. At himself, his weaknesses, his craving for a little bit of contact and his warped idea of interaction that could so pervert the innocently-meant regard of a young girl. A child. A student.  
  
What kind of teacher was he?  
  
Suppressing another shudder, Snape gathered up his robes and strode purposely, noiselessly, back towards his dungeons. Enough of this maudlin reflection for one night.  
  
Luggage, on the other hand, was more than a little pleased with itself. That interfering git would no longer be a threat to the Mistress, it was sure. It had shown him. It felt like a victorious crusader riding out of battle on a steaming, sweating mount, flanks heaving with exertion but with the gleam of victory in its eyes.  
  
So pleased was it, that it sought, like any good knight on the return from a successful campaign, the company and attention of its squires.  
  
It could already feel the polish soaking into its wood, the wet sponges bringing its metal work to a gleaming, glistening shine.  
  
It hurried its steps towards the kitchens.  
  
Dobby was so happy to see "Mr Trunk" that the luggage had three coats of polish and two baths before it once again felt blissfully clean, and retired to the restricted section of the library.  
  
I've got a thing for Snape. I haven't got a thing for Snape. I have got a thing for him. Haven't. Have.  
  
Damn.  
  
The last of the petals came off in Hermione's fingers, leaving her staring at a mess on her bed and an inescapable conclusion.  
  
Idly she rubbed a hand through Crookshanks' fur, and snuck a glance over at the luggage, quiescent in the corner of the room. Over a week since Ron had been allowed out of the hospital wing, and the suitcase was still on probation. Because she could understand why it had tried to remove Ron (it must see him as a rival) she had decided to forgive it, but that didn't mean she was particularly happy with it. The luggage had apologised with an air of put-upon puzzlement, rubbing itself against her legs and regarding her with suspicion, but they were on their way to being friends again. Actually she felt quite chuffed that it cared about her enough to pull the whole stunt.  
  
It didn't help that far from being angry about the luggage's performance, Snape seemed to find it extremely funny.  
  
Snape. Oh, dear. When on earth had that thrice-damned git had time to worm his way into her affections? Certainly, he'd managed somehow.  
  
What she wasn't sure about was how aware Snape himself was of her changing views towards him.  
  
No doubt, he'd find the whole situation completely ludicrous.  
  
Hermione tried to put his smirk out of her head and returned to revising her redrafted notes about the Photo-Quill, determined to have them in some kind of order before tomorrow night, when Snape and she had decided to test the unwieldy invention on that other cumbersome construction, the obnoxious antique mirror. 


	16. Suitcases, Intrigues

Chapter Sixteen: Suitcases, Intrigues (It's Inevitable)  
  
The hair curled just above her waist, a shining ebony sheet with handfuls of silver. There was a smile in her eyes like the slight curve of her open mouth, waiting to speak, to laugh, to joke.  
  
Skin was shaded and sculpted by tiny lines, and those not so fine; there hung about her features a dignity that made her both old and not old.  
  
Oddly enough, she looked like a youngish Minerva McGonagall.  
  
But there was no doubt any longer in Hermione's mind that this, dear Roie, self-appointed parent of an aggravating looking glass, was indeed and could only, be the Rowena Ravenclaw.  
  
She shook. Not just a gentle trembling of hands, but an all-over, uncontrollable quiver that was tiring and relieving all at once.  
  
It worked!  
  
"Incredible, isn't it?" murmured a soft voice, somewhere behind her.  
  
"Yes," she replied.  
  
Silence.  
  
Then grinning, laughing, shouting, and crying out in exultation, Hermione Granger launched herself into the arms of Severus Snape without so much as a by-your-leave.  
  
He was stunned.  
  
It had to be an automatic reaction that raised his hand to stroke her hair and entwine his fingers in her curls, not a conscious thought; at that moment he was as far from conscious thought as Neville Longbottom on a loop- the-looping wild broomstick.  
  
Why, oh, why?  
  
"Miss Granger," he said carefully, and received no response. Just a happy sigh, muffled against his shoulder.  
  
"Miss Granger, I hardly think this is an appropriate position."  
  
Did she mutter, "Proprieties be hanged?"  
  
"Please, Miss Granger," and he pulled her away from him and held her at arm's length. To judge by her eyes, somewhat wide and very glossy, she still wasn't thinking clearly. But she grinned up at him with every bit of the mischief he'd ever seen her display, and crowed "It works, Severus, it works!"  
  
And he wasn't going to argue with that. Letting his own jubilation take over, he drew her back into a warm, black-velvet embrace and held her close.  
  
Elsewhere in the castle, a wizard in a long, purple robe sat in front of a crackling fire drinking a night-cap of hot chocolate and caramel marshmallows.  
  
They were a muggle creation, to his knowledge, one of the best ever produced. It was such things as marshmallows, he mused, that allowed one to continue having hope in a race of people who could otherwise seem doomed and tortured by prejudices and narrow-minds. As long as they continued creating things like marshmallows, he knew there were still some among them who could appreciate beauty in the world, and, better yet, give it form.  
  
Absently, he played with a little yellow boat. It was no longer than two joints of his smallest finger, and it was made of a strange substance that made it seem half-finished. When he placed it in a dish of water, the ship promptly capsized. Dumbledore frowned, concentrated, and the strange material quivered and vanished, replaced by a perfect wooden ship with miniature cotton sails. This righted itself and started making industrious laps of its lake.  
  
Much better.  
  
Of course, he couldn't improve on the chocolate though. White on one side, brown on the other? How on earth did they do they without magic? The only thing to beat one muggle chocolate was other muggle chocolate. Lots of other muggle chocolate. "Remind me, Fawkes, to pop over to town tomorrow to pick up another few boxes, would you? I didn't get nearly enough last time. Someone ate nearly all of my Irish Cream Kisses last time, and while I'm not blaming Minerva, I think I'd better get her a box of her own so she leaves mine alone, don't you?"  
  
Fawkes trilled in agreement. Hopping across the desk to the arm of the chair, he presented his head to be scratched. The Headmaster chuckled and obliged him.  
  
"What is it, Minerva?" "How on earth do you know it's me when you have your eyes shut, Albus?" "You have a habit of hissing under your breath when you're annoyed. Like you are now, I believe?"  
  
"I certainly am! Albus, I have Harry Potter with me, and once you hear what he's got to say, you'll agree with me, That Trunk Has Got To Go!"  
  
Albus blinked, and opened his eyes. "That's strong, even coming from you," he said mildly.  
  
She drew her breath in sharply. "It put a boy in the hospital wing! That thing is a goddamned menace. You have to let me get rid of it."  
  
"Well, we'll see what Harry has to say, won't we?" He lifted his feet off the footstool and adjusted the glasses on his nose. "You may come in now, Mr Potter."  
  
"Don't do this to me, Hermione." "Sorry?"  
  
It took Severus a moment to realise she wasn't apologising, but asking a question.  
  
"Please," he said. I'd appreciate it if you'd let go of me, since I don't know what I'll do next. Actually I do, but ravishing you wasn't on my list of To-Do things for tonight, not even on the Things-to-do-in-the-near- future one, but if you don't move in one hell of a hurry, it's going to be on top of the Things-I-know-I'll-regret-but-oh, God!-I-enjoyed-myself-at- the-time file.  
  
She was quiet, but she didn't move.  
  
"If you don't get moving NOW, Miss Granger, it will be two hundred points from Gryffindor and a year's worth of detention for both of your friends. Now scat!"  
  
Hermione jumped away like she'd been hexed.  
  
"Damn," she said. "Sleep well, Professor."  
  
He watched her. Oh, hell. "It'll be three hundred points if you walk through that door, Hermione."  
  
She turned. "You're certainly the bundle of contradictions tonight."  
  
He sighed heavily. "I always am. But if you're certain you're not making a mistake.only if you're certain." how he hoped she was! He'd felt the caress of her fingers up his spine as she gave him an innocent hug - to feel that hair on his skin - oh, damn, if she walked away now, he'd still be, ah, occupied tonight, one way or another. Couldn't someone do something about human physiology?  
  
"I'm not sure I'd want to," said Hermione. And the shame of having complained that aloud, to her, was brushed away as she took his hands in her own, and smiling, came to him.  
  
"Miss Granger, I believe you should leave now." One last attempt at doing what he knew he should. "Were you to stay, there would be no way of telling what might.happen."  
  
Hermione thought her way through this. "Are you trying to tell me that you might, ah, lose control?" She was proud of the way her voice remained relatively steady.  
  
"Yes." "I'll take my chances, Professor."  
  
Yet he stared at her, a hint of panic in his eyes. "You don't understand! I might.you.this would be highly improper.I mean, we could."  
  
Hermione laid a finger over his lips. "Yes, we could," she said quietly, and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, sweat, and squirm.  
  
Snape took another deep breath. She was certain that he was a lot more shaken than he was trying to seem. "Are you sure you wouldn't.mind?" he asked raggedly. His eyes raked her body with a mixture of uncertainty, amusement and what had to be desire. Hermione met his eyes. And smiled. "Yes, I'm sure."  
  
"I think you're crazy," Snape said, "but I'm hardly in a position to argue." He leant across and claimed her lips in a deep, bruising kiss, delighting in the sensation of her warm wetness between his lips, the sweet welcoming taste of her mouth as he explored it with his tongue. Hermione moaned against him, certain, yet curiously unsure. "Professor." Crazily, in this moment, remembering what she had chosen to forget for weeks.  
  
He pulled away enough to fix her eyes with his own. "Severus," he said firmly, eyes glittering. "Severus," she breathed raggedly, obediently. He felt himself harden. "Say it!" he commanded roughly. "I want to hear you say my name. You were perfectly capable of saying it before." "Severus!" Hermione gasped, and pushed against him. He chuckled a little at her eagerness. "You most certainly do not mind, do you, Hermione?" Her name tasted like honey across his lips. She groaned wordlessly. "Please." not sure what she was asking for. Severus seemed to understand. "Not yet, I think, love" he murmured, gently tracing small circles on her back as he steadied her against him.  
  
Gently, he flicked his tongue across her lips, and moved away as she reached across for more. He nuzzled into her neck. The scent of her hair teased his senses and he inhaled deeply. Hermione clutched at him tightly, moving one hand up to curl her fingers in his own hair, the black silken strands slightly oily to her touch, but not unpleasantly so.  
  
For once in his life, Severus Snape was having a hard time being cynical. And he didn't care.  
  
They spent most of the night in each other's arms, just lying there, spread across his bed and tangled in each other. Just lying there, since after the first rush of passion was acted upon, each felt more the want to simply be, with each other, and gloriously, not alone.  
  
Not Alone. When was the last time he could lie in bed and say that? Oh, right, Dana. Inwardly he cringed, and kept cringing, for while Hermione's hand played lightly over his arm - not the left one! - the face he saw had orange-blonde hair and green eyes shaped of cruelty. She'd gone to Azkaban, hadn't she? Yes, with her husband.  
  
He could certainly pick them, couldn't he? "Oh, Hermione," Severus breathed. This couldn't continue. Who knew what it would do to her life, her emotions, her character? She needed comfort. A guiding light, neither guiding nor lighting, simply there, always there, for her.And she couldn't have known what she was doing. She was excited. Of course she was. When she thought about it, she'd regret it. Of course she would.  
  
"You're thinking I'm a child, aren't you?" "No."  
  
"Then you're thinking I'll regret you, when the morning comes."  
  
"Won't you?"  
  
"Severus, je ne regrette rien."  
  
"Not even an old man with a Grendel-sized past and a social problem?"  
  
"Social problem?"  
  
"I'm not exactly Prince Charming, you know."  
  
"And I'm not Cinderella. Or Snow White. Or Sleeping Beauty. In fact-" and she propped herself up on an elbow so she could look down into his face "-neither of us is the kind of person any fairytale is ever spread about. We're not heroes. We're just human. And, Severus?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You're kind of cute, when you frown." He chuckled, hugged her that bit closer with one arm. "This is hopeless."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You, me. Positions. Proprieties. This school. My history. Your life."  
  
"Why only my life, what about yours?"  
  
"Because I've already screwed mine up. I don't want to be the instrument of you wrecking yours. Don't you understand? Not even your friends Mr Potter and Weasley could ever see this as acceptable. Because it isn't. It's me taking advantage of you trying to fill a sudden gap in your life, and trust me, Hermione, this isn't the way to do it. You're still on the rebound from losing your parents, you don't need a dark wizard with a lot of emotional baggage. I'll be your friend, I'll be your mentor, I'll even be your partner in crime if it comes to it, but I won't be, can't be, your lover." He got up, stood beside the bed looking down at her.  
  
"Forgive me, Hermione."  
  
Hermione lay there in the darkness long after the bathroom door had shut behind him. Her clothes lay, with his, strewn about the floor. She felt bad about picking them up. Not because she was regretting what had happened, but because her academic's clinical and analysing mind knew at an instinctive level that he was right.  
  
Still, that didn't stop her romantics' schoolgirl heart from trying to prolong the moment as long as possible.  
  
Or scheming for a way to repeat it.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
By the time Christmas rolled around, in a flurry of tinsel and holly, Hermione had firmly decided that there were only three types of students at Hogwarts: those who worked, those who liked quidditch, and those who deserved a good clout around the ears. However, she was a little hazy about the boundaries of the last two groups. Quite a few quidditch players had her fingers itching when they came to the Head Girl for 'advice' about something. Severus, when she told him, laughed sharply and remarked that in his long experience there was only one group.present company excepted, of course.  
  
"Of course," said Hermione dryly. They were sitting in his office, drinking coffee and grading papers. Often when she needed a break from the petty responsibilities of being Head Girl ("Alright, girls, now let's sit down and talk about this. Who hexed whom first? Oh, okay, a Slytherin started it. Why'd you get involved then?"), or just somewhere quiet to work, she drifted down to his office. After a while, Severus had relented and simply given her the password.  
  
That had led to many pleasant evenings like tonight. She found his company occasionally abrasive, but always welcome; he seemed to find her a little irritating at times, but always did his best to pretend he didn't.  
  
"And how is luggage?" The question was unexpected. Hermione looked up from the stack of essays in surprise. "Behaving itself," she said finally.  
  
He smirked. "I'm glad. Did you hear it chased several first year Hufflepuffs into a broom closet and wouldn't let them out?"  
  
Hermione's shoulders shook with laughter. No, she hadn't heard!  
  
"Why did it do that?" she managed. He quirked an eyebrow in almost innocent look. "Who knows? And does it matter?"  
  
It didn't, really. They shared another laugh and a moment of companionable silence.  
  
He'd worried, at first, she might act like a jilted lover and pile on the guilt, the hurt looks, the longing sighs, but almost to his frustration, she didn't. In fact they were better friends than ever. It was best for her, of course. Yet it was Times Like These that made Severus feel a dreadful cad for Doing The Honourable Thing.  
  
"I'm just glad Professor McGonagall wasn't allowed to expel it after all. It's certainly livened things up around here!"  
  
"Well, she didn't have much choice, did she, with your Mr Weasley refusing to, ah, press charges against it."  
  
Hermione laughed, and laid down her quill. "They're actually pretty good friends, now," she observed, grinning. "Once I got it across to Luggage Ron wasn't an enemy, and once he realised it wouldn't go around eating people - often - he thinks it's the greatest thing since airborne broomsticks."  
  
Funnily enough, it had been luggage after all who had finally cured Ron's crush on Hermione. With such an intriguing and opportunist new toy, he didn't have enough time to sit around making googly eyes at her.  
  
She didn't miss that in the slightest! Yet luggage, for all that they were apparently friends, never lost its initial wariness around The-Funny-Two- Legs-Who-Is-Apparently-Not-A-Threat-To-The-Mistress-Yet-Can't-Be-Trusted- Anyway.  
  
For its part, though, Luggage was enjoying its time at Hogwarts. There were no end of rumours that flew around the castle: if a student was late to class, then it was said the walking suitcase got him; if someone lost a book, a robe, a familiar, it was Dinner; if Hagrid came strolling out of the Forbidden Forest with the trunk marching proudly along behind, then one could only guess at what they might have been Up To.  
  
Then, of course, there was the Hat.  
  
Like most events in which the Luggage played a starring role, this one started out innocently enough.  
  
Ginny Weasely, whom the case had come to be much fonder of than her older brother, also played a lead role in this little drama. So too did Professor Minerva McGonagall, though a smaller one, and this without her knowledge.  
  
As long as there had been a Hogwarts, there had been the four houses and the means of deciding which student should go where: the Sorting Hat.  
  
Now luggage, by the virtue of that it lived at Hogwarts, was in complete possession of all its mental faculties, and was, in its own opinion, a valuable apprentice to more than one Hogwarts Professor (Where would Professor Lupin be without it? Luggage had faced down more Dark Arts than he had hairs on his tail! And Hagrid had as much as said he didn't know what he'd do without its help - It must have been dreadful for them before Luggage came on the scene to assist, aid, benefit, sustain and otherwise breathe life into all their endeavours!) had come to the realisation that it alone, of all the castle's inhabitants, did not belong to a House.  
  
This saddened it. But not for long, since it was, after all, Luggage.  
  
It trundled along the corridor, toes tapping jauntily to a half-forgotten melody. The way was clear! It was free, it was-  
  
Ginny Weasley. Well, it'd have to do something about her.  
  
"Hello, Luggage. Out for a walk?"  
  
Just exercising the old ankles, they get a bit stiff sitting in the library all day.  
  
"You must get bored, sitting in a cold library all day, don't you?"  
  
It's not quite that bad, thank-you, one learns to live with what one has.  
  
But the sympathy was mollifying.  
  
"Still, I imagine you'd like a walk in peace without Professor McGonagall breathing down your neck, wouldn't you? Because if she sees you, she'll raise the entire castle, including Professor Dumbledore, and then you'll never get any peace."  
  
Including Professor Dumbledore.  
  
Some of the Luggage's thoughts must have transmitted themselves to Ginny Weasley's mind, in the strange and mysterious way known only to sentient suitcases, or perhaps she must merely have been more susceptible to that sort of thing, for a crafty expression crossed her freckled face and made her smile.  
  
"That would be rather dreadful, wouldn't it?" she murmured. "You run along, and I'll cover for you."  
  
Her eyes filled. Her chin wavered. And as the luggage rounded the corner as fast as all its little legs could carry it, Ginny Weasley began to scream as loud as she possibly could.  
  
"Professor McGonagall, Professor McGonagall! I just saw the most frightening thing! Get the Headmaster! It's a monster and it's got lots of really, really dreadful teeth!"  
  
Then she conveniently led them in the wrong direction, a fuming McGonagall and a trying-terribly-hard-to-be-serious Dumbledore, summoned on the Deputy Headmistress' express orders, while the Luggage continued merrily along its chosen corridor. Which, as it happened, led directly to the Headmaster's office. 


	17. And the Hat said...

Chapter Seventeen: And the Hat Said.  
  
Luggage slid around the door. And came clasp to beak with Fawkes.  
  
For an awkward moment, the suitcase and the phoenix regarded each other intently, curiously. Then the case extended a curious toe, and poked the bird.  
  
Fawkes had never been poked before. Certainly never by a sentient, enchanted, damn strange looking suitcase. But the suitcase refused to back down. Its lid began to shudder. Slowly, the latch twitched, the lid began to open.  
  
That was enough for Fawkes. Trailing iridescent feathers, he swept over the intruder and up into a corner, onto a rafter.  
  
Luggage snapped half-heartedly at a tail-feather.  
  
Hmmmm. Tastes like cat.  
  
Memo to self: Scrawny looking things with feathers are not, repeat, not worth chasing.  
  
But, then, it hadn't come here for dinner, had it?  
  
Throughout the many years that students at Hogwarts had been sorted by a frayed, tattered piece of Headgear, there would be the occasional not-as- much-of-a-blockhead that wondered what the Hat Did when not sorting through scattered pre-teen wits.  
  
Always Slytherins, of course. The Hat couldn't give a brass farthing for the members of any other House. Odious bunch. Useless, blubbering, stone- headed oafish imbeciles.  
  
A lot of Snakes fitted that description too. Yet there were sneaky, slimy, ambitious, cold-hearted, heartless schemers among them as well.  
  
A tremor of warmth went through the Hat. That kind of description was really quite flattering! It wouldn't have minded, had it been applied to it, though it hadn't been for many years, not since it - he - had been drawn towards the half-baked spell of that imbecile Godric Gryffindor. He'd sought some sort of power to imbue his over-decorated sword with, and he'd found it, to a degree.  
  
Never thought he'd find his equal - more than his equal - his master, and the would-be swordsman had nearly lost what wits he had with fright. He'd stammered out his intention in a quavering whisper.and because entry, even like this, into another world had seemed worth the cost, he'd agreed.  
  
Just out of spite he'd chosen the hat, not the sword.  
  
And over the years he/it (after a thousand years in the shape of a mouse- coloured hat, some lines of identity began to blur, if not to waver) had watched, and learned, and waited.  
  
But it had never, in all its time (nor had he, before the Hat) seen a suitcase that seemed, by all the Gods, to be alive.  
  
And it was walking towards the Hat.  
  
A shiver ran through the mouse-coloured tatters. There was power here, strange magic the Hat had never before seen.  
  
It Sparkled.  
  
And it was barefoot.  
  
Luggage noticed the Hat eyeing it with interest. It was a little hard to miss. In the middle of Dumbledore's cotton-candy desk, among the stacks of crisp white paperwork and the sherbet bombs and cockroach clusters (not to mention the lemon fizzlers drying on the seat of the room's only chair, a five legged creation with, curiously, a short, knobbly tail. The Headmaster used this to dry his socks on) the Hat was the only ordinary looking thing.  
  
It even seemed, to the Luggage's mind, to be trying desperately hard to look ordinary. It was so ordinary it might have had a plaque attached to its front brim that read "Just an ordinary Hat.Magical, you say? No, not me. Not a magic thread in my entire, uh, millinery. I mean, do I LOOK magical to you?" (that is, if Dumbledore or Rincewind were the signwriter.)  
  
Rincewind.  
  
That was it!  
  
With its heightened sensitivity to the ways of magic, Luggage clicked two toes together in understanding. This was not a Hogwartian Hat.  
  
It didn't even belong to this realm of existence. Perhaps the hat did, but not the mind behind it. (Thankfully, not Rincewind's. It just had some of the same otherworldly feel.)  
  
There was power here. Real power. Real magic. Waiting. Poised, ready to pounce.  
  
If it could have, Luggage would have smiled, grim yet excited. This felt like coming home, in a danger-filled, crazy quest kind of way.  
  
And so, exchanging one last eyeless, penetrating gaze with the Hat, the suitcase trundled forth to be Sorted. One toe flicked the Hat from the table onto its lid, while the others scrambled for balance on the seat of the Headmaster's chair. The chair solved the problem by adjusting itself to suit. With a relaxed sigh, the suitcase settled deeper and turned its awareness inward.  
  
The first (or was it the second - for a fleeting, bilious moment all it could taste was cat) thing it was aware of was that its impression of the Hat had been right. At any time it could have been anything else, from a star-spangled beret to a fireball touting evil wizard, had it not Liked the quiet life of observation and study that being a Headmaster's Hat ensured. Only once a year did it have to do any real work (except for that time with the Potter brat - irked, it had taken careful inventory of its hoard of magic treasures and given him Godric's useless sword - only to find it not so useless after all!) and there was plenty of the one commodity it truly craved, quiet.  
  
Then the Hat forcibly pushed the Luggage away from its thoughts and turned its attention to the suitcase's own.  
  
Quite the interesting puzzle, aren't you? You could have so much power just from being yourself, yet you want to be like these people. Curious.  
  
Luggage felt just the slightest bit indignant. They can use magic. And they belong.  
  
Of course, that's it, isn't it? The Hat seemed amused. At heart you're just a lonely little soul, longing to be loved. Where shall I put you? Hufflepuff?  
  
Not Hufflepuff! The Luggage had seen enough of Hufflepuffs to last a lifetime! It would never live down the shame of being one.  
  
So you have pride then.  
  
Of course.  
  
And ambition, or you wouldn't have come looking for me.  
  
Yes.  
  
Courage? Yes. Intelligence? More than most of the students I've Sorted, but that's not saying much. Why do you want to be Sorted?  
  
Everyone has a House except me.  
  
You're jealous, the Hat mused. I can understand your feelings.  
  
And yes, was there just a twinge of sympathy from the Hat's direction?  
  
I know what it's liked to be feared. To be unpopular, distrusted. Barely tolerated. Unloved.  
  
I'm not unloved! Somehow, the words stung, and the Luggage found itself snapping back with irritation. I have my Mistress and I have my friends!  
  
Of course, of course you do. But what happens when they don't need a walking suitcase? When you've worn out your novelty value? Then, my dear friend, you'll be relegated to the back corner of a closet, filled with old sheets and worn towels, and forgotten.  
  
I think, said the luggage, I'm beginning to wonder what you're doing Sorting snotty-nosed little schoolchildren.  
  
It is, replied the Hat, in a smug, pleased tone, the price I pay for the chance to refine my mind and skills. Here I can study, unplagued by the ills and distractions of the body! Here I can become what I had previously only dreamed of.  
  
In the depths of Luggage's consciousness, well beyond the Hat's reach (underneath the false bottom with the concealed latch) flickered the thought that the Hat merely liked an easy life, and it was, for all its power, quite mad.  
  
But you're still only a hat.  
  
Only my choice, dear Luggage, only by choice.  
  
Well, and there was no mistaking the irony in the Luggage's thought, now that's been sorted out, perhaps you might get around to Sorting me.  
  
The Hat laughed. After all this, you still have to ask? I have half a mind to put you in Hufflepuff after all, for your dunderheaded idiocy. But that would be a disservice to us both. There's only one House for you, if you have to have me say it-  
  
Yes.  
  
Then you'll have to pay the price.  
  
Of course.  
  
Take me with you.  
  
Thoughts of 'hatnapping' the Sorting Hat, even if the Hat had masterminded the whole thing, left a delicious spark in the Luggage's interior.  
  
See, you do have potential, after all. The Hat's mind-voice was a soft, sweet, caressing whisper, that could have, if the Luggage had been concentrating, raised the hackles on its hinges.  
  
And my House?  
  
Is SLYTHERIN, of course. Now get down off that chair, you ridiculous lump, and put me down. Carefully.  
  
This was orchestrated, in true Luggage style, in a manner that left the mouse-coloured hat even more crumpled than it already was, and quite, quite dizzy.  
  
This won't do. Put me back on the desk.  
  
I just took you off it!  
  
The Hat sighed. And now you are going to put me back. Carefully, of course. Do I have to do all your thinking for you?  
  
Luggage felt insulted. This was the suitcase which had an entire castle watching their backs, and it didn't feel like tolerating such abuse! It wasn't careful, nor gentle, but eventually the Hat ended up back in its old spot on the Headmaster's desk.  
  
I see I'm just going to have to instruct you from afar, the Hat decided, in long-suffering tones.  
  
Instruct me?  
  
Well of course, 'instruct you'! The Hat mused for a long moment. I have.missed.companionship. For what it's worth. I think having an apprentice may turn out to be quite an interesting experience. It seems there may be some draw backs to being a hat after all.  
  
Well, of course there is! You can't go exploring, and it must be pretty lonely, sitting up on that plain old desk, with only that strange looking bird and one wizard for company.  
  
The Hat was silent. Then it laughed.  
  
Think of yourself as my agent throughout Hogwarts. You may be my eyes - um, my whatever - to the outside world. Go, apprentice. Explore your castle. Play your games. Eat your cats.  
  
The Luggage backed out of the office, letting the Sorting Hat's words sink in. The only one that registered, for a long moment, was apprentice. It was going to Learn Magic!  
  
Then, something else drifted in, that made the Luggage stop, think, and shudder from the tips of its hairy, gnarly feet to the shiny ends of its metal bands.  
  
Don't, it said, mention cats. 


End file.
